


BBC Sherlock: The Case of the Colonel Carruthers Connection

by Wynsom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, シャーロック | Sherlock: Untold Stories (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27853554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynsom/pseuds/Wynsom
Summary: Had Sherlock not changed John's life would John have taken his own? War injury and PTSD aside, what mystery in John's past made him feel "so alone" and lost? This character study follows John's long journey on the road to redemption, from the invalided soldier suffering survivor's guilt and tempted with suicide to the grieving widower sitting in his old armchair in 221B.SPOILER ALERT: While the timeline of this story begins after the Blind Banker, there are many spoilers and references to all four seasons of the BBC Series, including The Abominable Bride. Readers should be familiar to some degree with these episodes. Warning. Since the topic of suicide is discussed throughout, this story has an M rating.Chapters: 10 - Words: 31,961
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. Storm

**Chapter 1: Storm**

88**88

"My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked up Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was built."

\- Holmes: _The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge_

88**88

88**88

"John?"

Images of bloody faces and maimed soldiers kaleidoscoped in his consciousness, but the insistent voice pushed through the nightmarish haze.

"John, John,"it urged. Then again, more loudly, "John!"

John sat up with a start, eyes wide and wild with visions of war. His heart thudded. Perspiration drenched his hair and t-shirt. He was tangled in his sheets. John scrubbed down his face and blinked, peering through the dark room as he became more oriented—beneath him was his comfortable bed—not a stretcher board awaiting a Medivac chopper. This was not a nightmarish battlefield but the flat he shared with Sherlock Holmes.

"John," Sherlock's calm voice came from the dark threshold of the upstairs bedroom in 221B Baker Street.

The clock on the bedside table read 3.17.

"Sherlock?" John squinted at the unexpected presence of his flat-mate—not an apparition—in the doorway. Sherlock had never before intervened during one of his PTSD episodes. John felt uncomfortable that the man was here now, seeing him like this.

"Awake now, then?" Sherlock's tone was clinical and detached, empty of empathy.

"Huh? Yeah," John grunted his surprise. His agitation must have been particularly alarming and loud to disturb his aloof flat-mate. He rubbed his eyes again and gawped at Sherlock's silhouette.

"Sorry, sorry," John frowned and punched his pillow. "It's nothing." Mortified, he turned over in bed, with his back to the door and pulled the top sheet over his head. He wanted to tell Sherlock to go away, but he muttered, "I'm fine," instead.

There was no reply. Curious, John thrust the sheet aside and glanced over his shoulder at the door. Sherlock had left.

The next morning John sauntered into the kitchen, dressed and ready for the surgery; Sherlock ignored him. This wasn't unusual when Sherlock was busy. From the state of the kitchen, it looked as though the detective had been working all night.

Wearing protective goggles and his lab coat, Sherlock stood over the kitchen table that he had monopolized with his equipment. Between systematically checking the contents of the test tube clamped over the Bunsen burner flame and intermittently jotting notes, Sherlock remained absorbed by his work and oblivious that John had joined him.

John watched silently, expecting a glance or a nod of acknowledgement from his flat-mate even if there would be no dialogue, but Sherlock kept his eyes averted. John felt he might as well have been invisible. This complete avoidance seemed odd, even for an occupied Sherlock.

 _Guess I missed that memo about chem lab in the kitchen today_ , John thought wryly, knowing he hadn't been given prior warning. Sherlock had mentioned something about obtaining and testing evidence crucial for a pending court case, he just hadn't mentioned when and how he would be carrying it out. Sometimes, his flat-mate was thoughtful about reserving a portion of the flat—the sitting room, the kitchen, the bathroom—for his work. More often, as this morning, Sherlock was as thoughtless as if he lived alone.

 _All right, thoughtless it is this morning._ John shrugged it off. Familiar with Sherlock's signature Do-Not-Disturb body language, he made no further attempts to communicate. Moments later, John corrected himself. Sherlock had made their morning coffee. _Maybe not so thoughtless._

The smell of the heated substance in the test tube mingled unpleasantly with the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee. John had endured many offending fumes as an army surgeon; nothing Sherlock had cooked up so far was intolerable.

John poured himself a cup, sniffing to make sure it was not another of Sherlock's experiments. He made toast and slathered on Seville marmalade whilst keeping out of Sherlock's way. Leaning against the worktop, he sipped his coffee and munched his toast, casting curious glances at Sherlock and his experiment while checking the headlines of the morning paper. When finished, John washed his knife and plate, and took note of the time: 7.24. Sarah had asked him to be at the surgery by eight. With some spare time before he had to leave, John settled at the table in the sitting room with another cup of coffee to read the cricket scores.

Sherlock was in his own world. His grunts and soft asides as he took notes during the experiment were not meant to stimulate conversation and John was relieved. It seemed his early morning disturbance had been altogether forgotten. He preferred it that way.

At least his psychosomatic limp had abated. Several months ago, their first chase on a first case had been more therapeutic than John's sessions with his psychologist. However, the accumulated traumas of wars continued to affect his sleep and were proving more difficult to resolve. Vivid memories of bloodshed and loss had become a nightly event. Worse, these PTSD symptoms were beyond his control. He deemed it a weakness of character and another sign of how broken he had become since returning from Afghanistan. "Who'd want me for a flat-mate?" he had shrugged when Mike Stamford suggested investigating a flat-share in London.

Meeting Sherlock had changed his bleak outlook, however. Not at first, of course. John had had to get past his initial, unsettling sense that Sherlock Holmes was a nutter. _Brilliant, yes, but a nutter_.

Once they had agreed to share the flat in Central London, John felt as though he was getting ahead of his PTSD for the first time. But now, after a few months of mild symptoms, his night terrors had returned and with an intensity that had destroyed the pleasant prospect of sleep. John now worried that Sherlock would reconsider their living arrangement. His own adjustment to Sherlock's propensity to play the violin at all hours or to not talk for days on end had required patience. John was less certain the punctilious detective had any store of patience with which to adjust to the "worst" about _him_.

John turned to look at Sherlock over the top of his lowered newspaper. _Is this why you're avoiding me this morning? My wee-hours episode too much for you, Sherlock? Will you be asking me for my key?_ John checked his watch and shook off his disturbing insecurity: Time to go… to work.

Sherlock's sharp, "Where are you going?" ended the strained silence.

John grabbed his shooting jacket off the peg, "Locum work today …," and grinned at the goggled scientist staring at him from the kitchen table. "I told you this yesterday…," he said, stuffing his arms through the sleeves and hiking the jacket over his shoulders.

"You did," Sherlock nodded and resumed his work, as if he had not spoken at all.

"Later," John said, checking his wallet for his Oyster card. "Back about five…."

When Sherlock made no sign he had heard, John assumed this tidbit had also fallen on deaf ears.

88**88

Half-five, John returned, bringing with him the afternoon post Sherlock had not bothered to collect from the first-floor mail basket, along with a bulging plastic bag decorated with a smiley face. When he entered their flat, he immediately noted the kitchen table had been cleared and the scientific equipment meticulously cleaned and stored in the designated spot on the worktop.

"Oh! That's a surprise," John remarked, with the bob of his head that indicated the empty table.

Sherlock missed it. Seated in his chair with his laptop balanced on his raised knees, he replied without looking up from the screen. "Surprise, indeed. You said you'd be back by five."

"No, I meant the table is cleared. Yeah. Nevermind….Anyway," John corrected with a half-smile, "I believe I said _about_ five. Stopped for takeaway. " He lifted the bag as proof. "Wasn't sure if the kitchen would be available for food prep."

"Insightful," Sherlock muttered and kept typing.

Hefting the bag onto the kitchen table, John dumped the mail alongside it, peeled off his jacket and hung it next to Sherlock's great coat on the pegs behind the door.

Sherlock tented his fingers and sniffed. "Thai. Green Chicken Curry infused with lemongrass, coconut milk, chilli, and ginger?"

"And Chilli Beef Jasmine Rice," John added, sorting the junk from the bills. "Enough for two—" He paused over a handwritten envelope addressed to him. He shivered in recognition—it was the third he had received in so many weeks—and like the first two, he intended to read it later in private.

"Third one, I see. Same sender—a Colonel Carruthers." From across the sitting room, Sherlock's laser stare fixed on the letter in John's hand. "Each time you receive one such missive, you have the same reaction. You grimace."

John was annoyed with himself for ignoring the quickly established need for discretion around his flat-mate. This was his personal mail, after all, and he need not explain it to Sherlock. "It's nothing…," he waved it dismissively, but tightened his hold on, as if unwilling to part with it. "I'm fine."

"You said the same thing this morning after your recurring nightmare," Sherlock pointed out, "but we both know, your sleep terrors have worsened over the past three weeks—"

John flushed and shook his head. "Look, I know…I know it's disturbing, but…I …,um… I'm um…" he stammered and stopped. He didn't know what to say.

"—The first letter from Colonel Carruthers arrived three weeks ago," Sherlock continued," Before then, your sleep was less disturbed and your PTSD seemed under control. Coincidence? I think not."

"Hardly your concern, is it?" John warned in a low voice. His clenched jaw and furrowed brow did nothing to hide his chagrin at Sherlock's insight.

"I disagree. It is my concern, more so, since you live here. It has occupied my mind all day." Despite his addressing the doctor, Sherlock's eyes remained focused on his laptop. "I saw no point in bringing it up during your breakfast this morning until I had had time to think it through."

"Explains the silent treatment this morning," John mumbled before countering, "Thought you were working on that important experiment all day?"

"I multitask," Sherlock smiled to himself while typing. "Besides, since I started the experiment last night, I was able to obtain my results by early afternoon."

"So, how'd that go?" John hoped to divert the topic. "The experiment, I mean. It was for a court case, was it?"

Sherlock halted. Putting his laptop aside, he rose from his chair to join John in the kitchen. "I have proven beyond all doubt that Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer, was indeed causing a plague-spot in the East-end, but don't change the subject, John. We have to address your problem. And soon. It cannot continue like this."

 _So this is it._ John's spirits sank as Sherlock approached him. The sensitive topic he had been hoping to avoid was now in the open. Despite feeling both embarrassed and helpless about his problem, John swallowed his worry and faced Sherlock with his chin high. "Sorry. Not interested in your thoughts. I can handle this. I _will_ handle this—"

"Handle this how? With your therapist?" Sherlock scoffed, his eyes pinned John. "Talk without action will prove ineffective. You must root out the cause of your problem, not mollycoddle it with psycho-babble platitudes."

"And _you_ know the cause of my problem, do you?" John huffed.

Sherlock frowned and looked away. "Not exactly. But I have determined that your heightened parasomnia is recent. Uncontrolled, it can cause harm."

"What?" John recoiled, his eyes dark. "Parasomnia?" He flung the bills on the table watching them slide across the wooden tabletop. A few fell to the floor. John's left fist tightened, crumpling the Carruthers' letter while his right hand clutched at his chest. "That's what you think, is it? I'm dangerous and will harm you…?"

"Harm _me?_ Don't be an idiot, John. You wouldn't win," Sherlock replied coolly, looking down at John. "More like harm yourself if you begin to sleep walk without an awareness of your surroundings. You should consider the stairs to your bedroom a serious problem, a sleep hazard. I deduce the contents of those Carruthers letters are exacerbating your symptoms of PTSD, causing you greater psychological stress, manifesting itself in the features of parasomnia: groaning, talking, grinding teeth, crying, screaming—"

"—the stairs to the bedroom are not my _only_ serious problem, mate," John stated softly, clenching his fists and bowing his head. "Shut up, Sherlock."

"

"—accelerated heart-rate, sweating, skin flushing, confusion upon waking,…"

" _Shut_ up now, Sherlock. You're crossing the line—"

"—exploding-head syndrome, sleep-related hallucinations, shouting, kicking …"

"Exploding-head syndrome?" John repeated, grinning with anger. "Do you even know what that is?"

"Of course. Exploding head is the condition when a person suddenly imagines violent noises just before falling asleep—"

"Sonofabitch!" John cocked his head in escalating anger and glared at his flat-mate. "Where do you get this stuff? Why not add bed wetting to your list? My God! How the _bloody hell_ do you come off psychoanalyzing me?"

"It's not psychoanalysis, John, merely what I've observed since you took up residence here …" Sherlock paused for reflection. "Although, I have not observed any bed wetting…"

John barked a mirthless laugh and raised his eyes toward the ceiling. "Sod this. I'm going out…" _before I punch you in the face,_ he added silently, grabbing his jacket and heading toward the door.

"What?" Sherlock seemed genuinely puzzled by John's reaction and gestured toward the unpacked takeaway. "What about dinner?"

"You know?" John straightened his shoulders and inhaled deeply, "I'm not hungry right now." He paused at the threshold at the landing. "You _are_ extraordinary, Sherlock, at being an annoying dick! So tell me again, what do people normally say after one of your uncanny deductions …?"

Sherlock recalled their conversation months earlier in the taxi. John had complimented him, called him _amazing… extraordinary_ …. He had replied in surprise, " _That's not what people normally say…."_

Sherlock gave a single nod of his head and answered his flat-mate, now as he had then with, "Piss off!"

"Yeah!" John gave him a smug smile. "Wonder why?" He bounded down the stairs and slammed the front door behind him.

Sherlock crossed to the window overlooking Baker Street and watched John storm off—not for the first time and probably not for the last. The flicker of concern he was feeling was new to him. _Unsettling._ That the truth he had dispensed was unwelcome was _not_ new to him. Grasping that he had mishandled the situation with his flat-mate, Sherlock now had to re-strategize if he was to eliminate the problem with John. He would need subtlety to allay John Watson's legitimate resentment as he dug deeper into the former army surgeon's connection with Colonel Carruthers.

**88**

**88**

* * *

* * *

**Author's Note**

_Special thanks to my very knowledgeable Holmesian friend for not only warning me about the pitfalls of excessive sentiment but for taking the time to show me what she means. Even so, in this story, I may have been heavy handed in playing the angst card. Apologies!_

_And thanks to all my special FF friends, especially englishtutor, and readers who encourage me_ _to continue writing_ _with their comments and constancy._

_I must again compliment the brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan to whom I am always greatly indebted for the series' dialogues._

_(All disclaimers apply. I claim no rights to the characters or storylines from the BBC show.)_


	2. Second Thoughts

**88**88**

It was late. He had work in the morning and couldn't stay out all night, but John Watson had lingered as long as he could at a nearby pub, nursing several pints over chips. He was alone. He had no one to call for companionship. Sarah and he were still in an early relationship and he didn't want to frighten her off—any more than he had on their first date—by appearing pathetic. And while DI Lestrade—Greg—had suggested they go out for a pint sometime, John didn't know him well enough to ring him up on the fly. No. he was all alone with his problem. Problems— _plural._ And after tonight, Sherlock loomed high on his list.

With his elbows on the table and his head resting in his hands, John closed his eyes to think about his peculiar flat-mate— _the infuriating eccentric, the conceited git._ It wasn't as if he hadn't been warned. Mike _and_ Mycroft had wondered about the arrangement.

Interminable poor health had done much to unravel John's close-knit ties within his military friends. Since his return to civilian life, his financial shortfalls had made it clear how alone he was. So, he took a flat-share with someone, who from the first, didn't appear to be interested in developing a friendship—Sergeant Donovan had mentioned "the freak" didn't "have friends."

_A cock up, that_. John rued his decision. _First blogged about him… Thought he was "oddly, strangely... likeable... then, mad," but now difficult doesn't even begin to describe him …with his public-school arrogance… I really think he's cross at the whole world for being idiots. Most times he's intrusive, pushy, self-centered, and manipulative_. _Don't know why_ _I put up with it half the time..._

John sighed. Some days, his bottled-up frustration with his flat-mate made him want to throttle the consulting detective for being too much of a genius. Although he liked those occasional snatches of Sherlock's humor, most times, all Sherlock wanted to talk about was his _damned_ cases…or his Science of Deduction. It was way past tedious.

John _tried_ to divert their tiresome, mostly one-sided conversations with acerbic asides. Sometimes it worked if he introduced the news headlines, the state of the world, Mycroft—that always got a smile from Sherlock. John liked that they both favored similar things: Chinese cuisine, sometimes Indian, and on rare occasions, long walks in silence—but otherwise, John wondered what else connected them. Social circles, whilst nonexistent for the both of them, would probably not have overlapped even if they were a social lot. It was beginning to seem that all they shared was digs and expenses; that was it—

_—Except for the adrenaline rush!_ John reopened his eyes.

Crossing paths with Sherlock Holmes—granted, it had only been three months since their first meeting—had turned John's life around. He no longer felt stripped of purpose, crippled by trauma. Sherlock's vibrancy was ...contagious. It revived him, or at least that part of him who until recently John had presumed died in Afghanistan—the man who ran _towards_ danger. After all those months of lethargy dulling his spirit, John discovered he still missed—no, _needed_ —the excitement of living on the edge, like an addict needs drugs.

_Like you needing a case… It's true, mate, you're obsessed, driven. Whatever it takes… It's your weakness. Without risks you're vulnerable... to another kind of stimulant. Lestrade knows this. Knows you have a hidden stash for the boredom, I'd wager. I have problems with boredom, too._

Recalling their two big cases together, the moments of utter insanity…and exhilaration, John half smiled, _Yeah, at least it's never boring around you!_

During that first foot-chase—intercepting the black cab on Wardour Street—John had completely forgotten his mental and physical impairments. Pumped by their pursuit, John had connected with Sherlock, _really_ connected. And despite their disappointment at the outcome, they had laughed at themselves, at their own foolhardy daring. John had not laughed like that since, since… well, for a very long time.

As unexpected as it seemed, Sherlock had dispelled John's isolation and loneliness by giving him adventures. Was this why he felt inexplicably drawn to both Sherlock and his work? Is this why he found him likeable? Since being invalided from the army, John had missed feeling needed, feeling alive. He missed being intensely committed to a greater cause and the friendships he had forged in combat, in terror, in the rare slack times between engagements. Coming home, he had _hoped_ to find work, purpose, friendship—something of what he had left in Central Asia—to fill the looming void.

_You'd deny it, Sherlock Holmes, but truth is, we_ both _could use a friend_.

John finished his drink, shoved the glass away, and glanced at Carruthers' letter. In the pub's reduced lighting he examined the crumpled envelope over and over. His row with Sherlock had unsettled him and he just couldn't bring himself to open the troublesome letter. He hadn't needed to; he was certain its contents would be similar to the previous two.

For the umpteenth time, John checked his watch. Half-ten. He stood reluctantly, paid his bill and left, resigned there was no way to avoid his flat **-** mate or the inevitable confrontation.

Classical violin music softly swelled from their flat as John mounted the seventeen steps. He had hoped Sherlock would have retreated to his own bedroom. He wasn't certain if he'd be ready to face the music and hadn't expected it would be literally so.

Sherlock stopped playing when John reached the landing and looked into the sitting room. Poised with violin under his chin and bow arm raised, Sherlock eyed his returning flat-mate with a curious expression and a scant smile. "Practicing the Paganini Caprices."

"Right!" John nodded, sure he hadn't consumed enough pints to mellow him for this encounter. "Don't let me stop you," he added gruffly, hung up his jacket and turned toward the stairs to his bedroom.

"John!" Sherlock dropped his pose. "A moment. Please."

"Sherlock, I'm tired." Without turning around, John waved a dismissive hand, "and I think we've said enough."

"Don't be an idiot, John," Sherlock snapped. "This needs mending."

" _Bloody hell!_ " John turned on his flat-mate; eyes flashing menace. "What's it to you, anyway?" he shot back.

The bitterness in John's face stopped Sherlock cold. He was unprepared to deal with such intense emotion.

"Hmmm! Cat got your tongue?" John gave him a twisted grin, disappointed by Sherlock's silence. It proved that the detective's intrusion was entirely clinical. Sherlock's "interest" wasn't an overture of friendship and John was annoyed with himself for imagining his flat-mate was capable of anything more. Sherlock didn't care—couldn't be _arsed_ to care—about anyone's suffering. "Stay out of this!" John demanded. "I'm not a machine for _you_ to mend!" He stomped up the stairs and closed the bedroom door with a loud, decisive thud.

Sherlock listened for clues as to what the man was experiencing in John's heavy footsteps overhead, detecting a slight limp in the back-and-forth pacing. He had never considered studying what the sound of footsteps conveyed—perhaps it merited examination. Yes, a paper, revealing what the pace, cadence, force of footsteps— _Stay on topic,_ he reminded himself. _You've a more immediate problem to solve._

John Watson had just spurned what Sherlock believed was a quite decent offer to help him resolve whatever was bothering him. Granted, he was accustomed to being rebuffed for his smug candor when probing for the truth or when he disclosed his astounding revelations. In fact, John's reaction was not as bad as others who had ridiculed, belittled, even attacked him. But this time his intention—his goodwill—had been so utterly misread that Sherlock had to question just how he had failed to communicate his honest wish to help the man.

In the next moment, Sherlock was surprised by his unexpected response to John's emotional outburst. It _mattered_ to him that his behavior had caused offense—and that was rare in itself. John's snub _felt_ altogether different from rejections by so many others and the awareness backfooted him.

John Watson was a proud man, justifiably proud, and Sherlock did not take that—or the man—lightly. Clearly that had not come across adequately in their interactions since taking up residence together. But for John to be so affronted at Sherlock's legitimate offer of help was out of character—in degree, certainly and perhaps in nature. While it was true there had been no spoken offer of it when they'd met, the fact that by the end of that first case John's limp had disappeared should have proven that his association with Sherlock Holmes could only benefit him. There had been other indications over the past three months, as well. John had found work and resumed a social life, all derivative of his condition's improvement due to having stability in his life.

Sherlock smiled to himself at that last. _I'm the very last thing someone should look to for stability! Still, that's not so terrible a thing. I suppose the good doctor functions in much the same manner for me…_

_Ah._ Sherlock stopped. _But I hadn't offered help. I'd told him it needed 'mending'._ He rubbed his hand across his lower face. _I'd be cross, too, had someone said it to me._ Mycroft came forcefully to mind.

Quite aside from John's distress regarding Carruthers' letters, Sherlock's interest in them and their impact on John had only been whetted by John's adamant refusal to cooperate. The more his flat-mate demanded privacy, the more perversely obsessed Sherlock became with what was an otherwise commonplace puzzle.

But, as much as it had stung, John had been justified in asking, _"What's it to you?"_

_It begged the question: Why did it matter?_ Even if Sherlock succeeded in resolving the question with logic, assuming that the same logic might also answer why it _mattered_ to him that he had offended John, would it resolve the larger, underlying, niggling question: What was John to him, after all?

Sherlock had been pleased that his quick assessment of John Watson upon their first acquaintance had borne out over time. He had given him the Baker Street address without reservation. Whilst their hastily decided living arrangement was initially utility-based for financial reasons, John had since proven to be a _convenience._ He tended to the mundane, tedious tasks of daily living **—** shopping, bill-paying, talking to Mrs. Hudson—things that would only have dulled the finely honed edge of Sherlock's brilliance had there been no John to take it on.

And yet…John Watson was a curiosity. On the surface, he seemed bland and ordinary, but his sharp wit and his snarky asides spoke of one who saw the world from a slightly jaded perspective, not unlike Sherlock's own. In addition, John's military training had already proven handy and would likely do so again in a pinch, of which Sherlock expected many. _Marksmanship of that caliber was a rarity._ John's integrity, honesty, calm, and courage were assets and qualities necessary in an ally. _Well, well,_ Sherlock thought, _how very odd that I should see him as an ally…_

John Watson served another practical, quite useful purpose: John was, as he had told Sherlock, a _very good_ doctor. His medical insights were thorough, helpful and kept Anderson at bay. He was an interactive audience, better than the skull, a sounding board, a person who stimulated deductions. While cold, impartial, rational thinking was the proper and only way to approach a problem, John's social insights provided Sherlock context for his findings. Upon reflection, John Watson, despite being intellectually inferior, was _less_ an idiot than most people. Unlike his reaction to most people, he didn't dislike John.

Sherlock caught the reflection of his surprised face in the mirror over the fireplace then smiled at a sudden realization about his flat-mate: he enjoyed this man.

As to the other side of the equation, he only partially understood why John might seek his company. Sherlock was no one's idea of a conversationalist. But his desiring John's company? That was unexpected and a revelation. And quite possibly, it was the answer to John's bitter, " _What's it to you?"_

It was not the strictly logical motivation that Sherlock always insisted underpinned everything he did. Perhaps John's question had arisen from his perception of the unlikelihood of Sherlock developing an interest in friendship. He had shown no interest in John's concerns prior to this. Sherlock had assumed that the solitary existence he preferred would be John's choice, as well. Hadn't he said, "So, you're on your own, like me." Taking that as his cue, Sherlock had proceeded to give John his space, satisfied that John was content to do the same.

Three months on in their arrangement and with no _current_ cases of consequence to occupy him, it shouldn't have mattered whether he liked John or not to follow through on determining why Carruthers' letters triggered the army surgeon's terrible nightmares. Sherlock had helped the few clients he had liked with their problems over the years— _Mrs. Hudson, Angelo_ —but for the others, liking or not liking was irrelevant. The cases themselves had to stand on their own, had to be sufficiently interesting for him to take it on. Sherlock wouldn't accept a case as a favor.

As he reviewed these months flat-sharing with John Watson, Sherlock saw he had made a concession in that no-favors rule; he had granted a favor and all unawares by including John on his investigations. Had anyone asked him why he included John, he would never have admitted that. Rather, he'd have said he needed the doctor's medical expertise—Met personnel being what they were—and that Dr. Watson needed the first-hand perspective in order to accurately report their doings on his blog.

The footsteps above him had ceased. Doubtless John had retired for the night. Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought. He had no intention of doing as John had demanded. He would get to the bottom of it, with or without John's help. For John's sake, ostensibly—and just maybe, for his own.

Determined, Sherlock set his violin and bow down on the work table, sat and opened this laptop. He laced his fingers in front of his mouth in thought and stared at the screen. A moment later, he wiggled the fingers to loosen them up and began typing. Once he made quick work of Mycroft's current access codes, he would have twenty minutes—at the most—before his brother's security would shut him down. Sherlock input the name Colonel Carruthers in MI5, MI6, and military databases. What he could learn in eighteen minutes might be useful…

**8**8**


	3. Rethinking

**88**88**

Not a word was spoken between them the next morning. When John came down, dressed and ready for work, he neither helped himself to the morning coffee Sherlock had brewed nor made any effort to grab some breakfast. His brief appearance—an ostentatious and transparent display of someone in a great hurry—was solely to retrieve his jacket and head out straightway.

Sherlock went to the window to observe John's stride: it was less energetic than the previous night's angry departure. He speculated that John was more fatigued this morning from his distressing dreams or possibly felt lackluster without a morning meal—he had not eaten the Thai takeaway from the night before, either. Or was it a sign of still-simmering irritation?

John's silent treatment was going to make getting important information unnecessarily difficult, especially as his nightly disturbances—induced by his unresolved issues—persisted. Not fifteen minutes earlier, Sherlock had noted the worsening severity of John's periorbital puffiness caused by sleep deprivation. While the bulldog set of John's jaw and his furrowed brow indicated that his resentment was still close to the surface, Sherlock would continue to watch for signs of abatement, at which point he expected his appeal to the rational mind would elicit John's cooperation. However, John's dogged stubbornness was proving a formidable obstacle.

The ping of a text on Sherlock's phone drew his glance. _Mycroft._

_What do you want now?_ it read.

Sherlock grinned. The limited success of his researches had been frustrating. He had had no more than three minutes within the government's top-secret databases before his access was cut off. Whilst security measures were definitely improving—although had he been a hacker, three minutes would have been enough to do tremendous damage—Sherlock now intended to use this breach as leverage with his brother.

His grin grew into a smug smile. Despite last night's setback, he now had an even more valuable commodity than information: Mycroft's attention. Armed with proof of the government's flawed cybersecurity, Sherlock was certain he could convince Mycroft to let him explore how deplorable government security was, whilst all the time sharing his brother's resources… unwittingly.

To get the answers he sought, Sherlock did more than text back; he rang his brother.

**88**

John paid for his egg sandwich and coffee and headed to the Tube, feeling somewhat contrite for beating a hasty retreat to avoid Sherlock. Another night of terrible dreams had left him drained.

John suffered the jostling of the morning crowd and waited a few stops before a seat opened up. He took it. Even though he had two more stops before his destination, he sat with his untouched coffee in one hand and his bagged breakfast in the other and closed his eyes.

He felt humiliated and betrayed by his psychological distress. Worse, last night's disquieting discussion had made John feel like a specimen under Sherlock's microscope. It was not the kind of attention he sought, but more than that, he hated that Sherlock was right: the contents of Carruthers' letters were exacerbating his symptoms. Rather than admit the truth to his flat-mate—John feared Sherlock would not stop probing until he learned all about the tragedy—John chose avoidance. This was not something he could hide for much longer, however, especially with Carruthers resurrecting the past—a past filled with pain and guilt that John had started putting behind him only recently.

_"…not the John Watson I know,"_ Mike Stamford had said that fateful day in Russell Square Park.

_"Yeah,"_ John had replied uncomfortably, _"I'm not_ the _John Watson—"_ He hadn't been able to finish _._

His chance to rebuild his life, to start fresh might all come to a sorry end if Carruthers refused to let the past go. And worst of all was the judgement John dreaded the more people knew what haunted him.

88**88

John stopped for a light dinner at a pub near the surgery after work. He ate alone, not for want of trying. He had asked Sarah to join him, but she had looked at him with her kind eyes and declined. "Sorry, John. I have other plans tonight."

To her credit, she had not held their first date—and subsequent near-death experience with the Chinese acrobats—against him. She had been quite clear afterwards that her preference was for less exotic venues. Their second and third dates had gone swimmingly, so John believed her refusal of his impromptu invitation, especially when she added, "Maybe next weekend?"

John smiled at the possibility and listened to the lively chatter around him. After nursing a second, post-prandial pint, he headed home.

It was half-past eight when he returned to Baker Street. And as it had been the previous night, the melodious violin welcomed him.

"John." Sherlock turned in greeting and immediately ceased playing.

"Sherlock," John nodded, shrugging out of his jacket.

Each studied the other, waiting, wondering who might speak first. After an awkwardly long pause, they broke the silence at the same time.

"—Stopped for a bite after work."

"—Second-day Thai was tasty."

"Oh," they both said simultaneously.

John looked away. "Glad it didn't go to waste," he said and hung up his jacket.

Again, both stood there uneasily, until John turned to go upstairs. "Yes, well. G'night."

"John!" Sherlock set down his Stradivarius and called after the retreating form. "Upon reflection, you were… you were right!"

John halted on the first tread, surprised. That _almost_ sounded like an apology. He wasn't sure if Sherlock was being disingenuous but his own curiosity and Sherlock's tone compelled him to turn around.

"Last night… I crossed the line." Sherlock's expression was only mildly contrite.

"Yes. You did." John nodded and folded his arms.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed—a look John wasn't sure how to interpret. Was it in puzzlement? … Suspicion? Would there be something _more_ forthcoming? John waited and was rewarded for keeping silent.

Sherlock hesitated then blurted, "Intruding on your privacy was not my intention."

"Okay," John stepped down and moved back into the sitting room. He clasped his arms behind his back and crossed toward his chair. "So far, so good. Go on." Keeping his eyes averted as he remained standing, he tilted his head as if to listen better.

Sherlock followed John with his eyes. "And…and… and, I…um… I should have listened when you told me to stop."

John nodded. "Look, Sherlock. I get that you deduce people—it's what you do—but it's when you show off by exposing us… That's what makes it unacceptable," John lifted his gaze to meet Sherlock's intense scrutiny. "Last night, I didn't _ask_ you to tell me what you thought. In fact, I told you to stop. But you did it anyway. You do this to everybody, not just me."

"Some people deserve it." The words were flippant but Sherlock's face was grave.

"No. I don't think so," John lips pursed in thought, "Well, okay, _maybe,_ but most people don't deserve to be humiliated the way you do it. You don't seem to care how hurtful it can be. In case you haven't heard, it's not good to provoke people. We react badly."

"I shall take that under advisement. Can't promise I'll stop provoking people when I deem it necessary," Sherlock tried a cautious grin. "Although it's clear, I shouldn't use my deductive tactics on friends…um, colleagues, …er, flat-mates," Sherlock fumbled, clearly befuddled by their conversation. He gave up with a shrug.

John recalled weeks ago on their last case when Sherlock had introduced him as a "friend" to Sebastian Wilkes. Wilkes had questioned Sherlock's use of the term; he had repeated _friend_ with an almost surprised sneer. That hadn't stop John from correcting Sherlock, asserting his association with the detective was that of "colleague," as it was a bit premature to be actual "friends."

Wilkes had snickered in self-amusement: _We all hated him_. John also recalled Mycroft's, _"You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has?"_ It occurred to John that Sherlock's pointed use of _friend_ with Wilkes had been deliberate. And in hindsight, telling.

He regretted that moment with Wilkes and flashed Sherlock a scapegrace smile. "Friend is okay." John mumbled. "But…if you persist in demeaning people _and friends_ with deductions, then expect unpleasant consequences, which I'm sure you've dealt with often enough…" John paused briefly and sighed. "Last night, when I told you to shut up—"

"—Yes. Twice," Sherlock nodded.

"I came pretty close to hitting you," John admitted. Their eyes met and held for a moment.

"What stopped you?"

John glanced down and rocked on his feet. He exhaled a soft, humorless chuckle. After a moment, he looked up again at Sherlock. "You were right."

Sherlock went still—waiting—not trying to force a resolution this once.

John shifted his focus beyond Sherlock as if he was seeing the truth in the distance. The sorrow in his eyes was fleeting, and he blinked it away. "Yeah! Of course you were right! Colonel Carruthers' letters are opening up old wounds.…" His voice caught and he cleared his throat. "Look, Sherlock. It's been a long day. I'm knackered. Let's drop it for now."

"For now?"

John stared at his flat-mate for several beats then turned on his heel. At the base of the staircase he paused. "For now," he said without looking back and continued upstairs.

"John," Sherlock called from below sounding as if he had something more to say, but merely said, "Good night," instead.

John closed his door and Sherlock resumed playing. He smiled at Sherlock's apology _—_ a rare occurrence, if that was what it was. He hoped the haunting visions would leave him be this night.

Once abed, John thought he recognized the music from the previous night— _Paganini Caprices_ —and soon fell into an untroubled sleep.

**88**88**

**88**88**


	4. The Honorable Thing

88**88

The truce between flat-mates did not mean the matter had been forgotten. For several days after it, however, Sherlock showed remarkable restraint and did not press for details.

Perhaps not coincidentally, John's bouts with PSTD had become less intense. Perhaps it was knowing that Sherlock had backed off and was not intending to send him packing that reduced John's agitation. Or perhaps Sherlock's new penchant for playing soothing melodies on the violin when John retired was having an effect. Certainly, the occurrences of heart-pumping nightmares and exploding-head syndrome that had plagued John mercilessly the past three weeks had abated. As a consequence, John felt no urgency to divulge the contents of Carruthers' letters.

Sherlock, however, had not been as restrained as John might have believed. During John's hours at the surgery or when he shopped for groceries or on a date with Sarah, Sherlock grew relentless in his investigation into John's past. Most of it, he already knew.

John Watson had earned his Bachelor of Medicine at King's College. This was followed by three years of residency and a fellowship in his surgical specialty, completed in 2004, also at King's College. After, Dr. Watson worked at the Broomfield Hospital Chelmsford and the University College Hospital London whilst training at St. Bartholomew's to become a British Army doctor.

Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers had an admirable service record. While deployed in Afghanistan for his three-year tour, he participated in numerous skirmishes and rescue missions, treating the wounded on the battlefields in Operation Herrick in Kandahar and Helmand province. As Assistant Surgeon, he repeatedly distinguished himself in the OR tents and camp hospitals as one of their finest surgeons. In addition to the honors for his service to Queen and country, Captain Watson was awarded the Operational Service Medal for Afghanistan—with clasp. Other honors for victorious service were denied him, however, when fate put him in harm's way and his military career ended.

Next, Sherlock delved into the army's medical databanks for details about John's recovery. The few times John had referred to that long spell, he had remained cryptic about his difficulties. The more Sherlock discovered that this convalescence was fraught with ups and downs, the greater his admiration for his modest flat-mate. It had taken courage to prevail in wartime, determination to survive his injuries and an indomitable spirit to surmount their extensive complications during that harrowing, post-war period.

 _"…in your very last few seconds what would you say?_ " Sherlock had asked John, hoping for an insight into what Jennifer Wilson might have thought right before she died.

 _"Please God, let me live_ **,"** John had replied without hesitation _._

At first, Sherlock had not registered the look on John's face and snapped in exasperation _, "Oh, use your imagination!"_

John had responded with the understated pride of a survivor, _"I don't have to."_

Sherlock shrugged off the prickly memory and concentrated on his investigation.

The Carruthers connection proved more elusive than Sherlock had anticipated it would be, despite Mycroft's cooperation. After some sophisticated digging through confidential army archives, Sherlock found a single report in terse military jargon about a summary hearing involving Captain John H. Watson. The transcript lacked essential details as the record had been officially expunged, which was why it had been so difficult to locate.

The dates on the documents put this summary hearing several months _after_ John's crippling war injury and subsequent fevers from sepsis. The hearing convened to consider the charges that Captain John H. Watson was culpable for an explosion while still in active service, causing the death of thirty-seven people. The charge of culpability had been initiated by Colonel Walter Carruthers, RAMC.

The Royal Army Medical Corps functioned to provide medical services to British Army personnel and was the medical specialist corps in which John had served. But who was this Colonel Carruthers, a commander stationed in a London headquarters, and why should he single out one military doctor for legal action, accusing him of misconduct on operations, specifically, _causing_ the explosion in Afghanistan?

Those questions chased Sherlock as he continued his researches. The timing of the one-day summary hearing ignored the army surgeon's precarious health. The official transcript reflected that Captain John Watson, though present, was frail, on oxygen, and needed assistance to stand and move. Perhaps there was some consideration shown, because the matter was dropped. According to the file, the charge against Captain Watson was summarily dismissed and no further legal action was pending.

It was unclear to Sherlock why this needed an official proceeding. It would have seemed a judge advocate or a research team could have presented the facts to a court without requiring the presence of the injured soldier, whereby it could have been dismissed at that point. It _was_ curious.

Why hold the proceedings and put the accused through hell before he had sufficiently recovered? Sherlock speculated that Carruthers wanted to have Captain Watson's good name and honors besmirched before the wounded man died of his injuries. This was a greater curiosity.

 _But John didn't die._ Sherlock smiled to himself. _John had the stubborn will to live._

The summary hearing confirmed Captain Watson's innocence and motioned to expunge his record. That was where the connection broke. Sherlock leant back from his laptop to consider the motive behind Carruthers' actions, then and now. Had Carruthers felt deprived of justice? If so, what was he seeking justice for? Was it purely due to Carruthers' responsibility, as the RAMC colonel headquartered in London, for the general oversight of the medical team that perished? Or was there a personal connection, someone closed to him, perhaps, killed in this explosion? Sherlock had perused the list of the deceased; nothing had leapt out to link Carruthers with any of them. It would take extra time to check the backgrounds of each victim; it was a nuisance that these facts had been omitted from the archives. Still, it felt like revenge, but Sherlock was averse to rely on feelings. Were these letters a form of harassment? Had they been following John from address to address? John had only taken up residence in Baker Street approximately three months ago.

Whilst it would have been simple for someone as highly placed as Carruthers to learn through official channels every time John's address changed, clout wasn't necessary to locate blogger Dr. John H. Watson's current residence. John had begun blogging about his encounter with Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and his decision to flat share since late January. Only yesterday, he had posted his latest about the international smuggling ring. Anyone doing a search could find his 221B Baker Street address. That thought sent a shiver of disquiet up Sherlock's spine. More determined than ever, Sherlock switched his investigation from John to Colonel Walter Carruthers, RAMC, in search of a motive.

88**88

Carruthers' letters had been unnecessary to remind John of the private pain he bore daily during his waking moments and the sorrows that assailed him during sleep. But sharing this personal concern with Sherlock was another matter. He wasn't ready for it.

It was not a letter the next time but a shoe-box sized package wrapped in brown paper.

"John, dear," Mrs. Hudson called from her flat when he opened the front door. "A parcel came for you this afternoon. I brought it upstairs with the other post."

"A parcel? For _me_?" John frowned at the unlikelihood of such a thing. Sherlock was the one to receive parcels, specimens he regularly ordered from medical supply companies. "You mean, for Sherlock, right?" he clarified.

"No dear," she popped out her flat door while drying a dinner plate and gave him a bright smile. "For a change, it's addressed to you—Dr. Watson. Sweets from the sweetie, I hope," she winked. "Perhaps, someone is sending you homemade biscuits… We used to do that all the time. Wrapped them just like that. They were always a welcome sight. Enjoy them, John," She waved with her dish linen and ducked back inside. "Hope they're tasty," he heard her say as he bounded up the stairs, two at a time.

John was still pondering the parcel waiting for him on the kitchen table, his heart pounding, when Sherlock returned moments later.

"John?" Sherlock warily eyed the packaged and his flat-mate standing stock still in the kitchen with the lights off. It was dusk and ambient daylight from the windows gave the scene an eerie glow. "What's that?"

John answered straight-faced, without looking up. "No idea. Homemade biscuits?"

"What?" Sherlock scowled his disbelief.

John shrugged. "Mrs. Hudson brought it up. Thought someone was sending me baked goods."

Sherlock considered the idea, "Your sister, then?"

John snorted a laugh, "Ha! Harry! That'll be the day. Never has before. Don't think she's gonna start now."

"Your doctor colleague, friend…um…Sarah, as a romantic gesture, perhaps?"

John shook his head. "Not likely. She's too busy to spend time in a kitchen. And why _send_ them to me when she sees me almost every day at the surgery?" John glanced at Sherlock. "No one I can think of from my short list of friends would send me treats…. Anyway, most of my friends are still in the service…. I should be sending _them_ boxes of biscuits."

"Other family?" Sherlock proposed, attempting to eliminate all the possibilities.

"A few distant cousins used to send me an annual Christmas card. Don't believe they would suddenly send me baked goods in March. Besides, I haven't heard from them in years…." John's voice trailed and he shook his head. There was no need to mention that when he was convalescing, he had been moved from hospital to hospital. Back then, it was hard to keep track of him and once invalided, John made no attempt to be found.

Both men stared at the parcel.

Sherlock shifted his focus and locked eyes with John. "We're agreed, then?"

John nodded and looked away, biting his lower lip with worry before replying, "Yeah. I'm sure it's a special delivery from Colonel Carruthers."

"Well," Sherlock circled the table. "I suggest we be guarded about unwrapping it." His advice was more a command than a suggestion. With his hands clasped behind his back, he stooped and examined the box. "Dimensions suggest it's a shoe box, by the size of it, a man's shoe. The ordinary brown wrapping can be purchased at any stationery store so it's less helpful, but the discoloration of the paper and the creases here and here are deep. They suggest it has been kept folded for quite some time. The handwriting is slanting every which way, you see that, John? While I've not seen Carruthers letters close up, I recognized the formation of the scripted letters; they're disproportionate and the flourishes are inconsistent. It suggests the person who wrote it is troubled with erratic tendencies."

Sherlock pulled a stethoscope from a kitchen drawer. He applied both the diaphragm and then the bell gently to the box and listened. "The good news, there's no ticking," he concluded with a smile.

"Yeah?" John huffed a wry laugh, "So, no need to call in bomb disposal for biscuits, then?"

Still leaning over the package, Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "There's no return address and more importantly No post stamp on it. This parcel was hand delivered, John, with today's post."

"How thoughtful," John cast a worried glance at the wrapped box. "Less jostling…fewer crumbs."

"Are you aware, John, you use humor to compensate for anxiety?" Sherlock said without looking away from the package.

"Never mind that, Sherlock." The pitch of John's voice rose with frustration. "We should be focusing on the package and not critiquing my coping mechanisms, yes?"

"I _am_ focused. And I assert that this delivery was intended to induce fear and that it's not a bomb. If I believed otherwise, I would insist we take Mrs. Hudson outside and wait until bomb disposal arrived." Sherlock spoke with confidence when he added; "This is a ruse, a hoax…."

"Seriously?" John asked, his tone deliberately low and measured.

"Seriously!" Sherlock nodded, noting another of John's over-compensation tactics for his quite legitimate disquiet.

A beat later, John's eyebrows arched, "How can you be so sure, then?"

Sherlock _was_ sure, based upon his thorough investigation of the Colonel.

Carruthers' lifelong career, first as a soldier and later as a commander, had been distinguished by his unswerving adherence to the British Army Values and Standards. He prided himself on his unblemished military record and his reputation as an exceptional role model. A long list of honors, decorations and distinguished-conduct medals furthered his acclaim. As expected, upon his retirement, barely a year ago, he had been awarded full honors.

The Colonel's medical records and psychological profile cast a different light on the career soldier's sterling reputation. His retirement was attributed to the onset of a nervous condition, described as a form of rigid personality disorder, affecting his decision-making skills. Carruthers had begun to manifest an "obstinate inability to yield to or a refusal to appreciate another person's viewpoint" to the degree that his staff could neither ameliorate nor ignore his behavior. Despite being ordered to desist, his relentless pursuit of "justice" for the entire team of medical personnel killed in the explosion was ultimately deemed reason for a dishonorable dismissal, unless he filed for his retirement papers.

Early in Sherlock's career, the detective had dealt with this personality disorder in two different criminal cases. In both cases, the perpetrators were so rigid in obedience to rules that the idea of breaking the law to commit a crime was abhorrent to them. However, it did not stop the vengeful individuals from _guilting_ their victims to death with forms of subtle persuasion or psychological tactics that would incline the "victim" to self-harm. Sherlock was certain this was Carruthers' strategy. He would not willingly violate his ethics by perpetrating an actual criminal act, i.e., make a live bomb and denote it to kill John, but his message was still clear. For reasons Sherlock had not yet learnt, the Colonel wanted John dead and was using guilt as a tool.

Sherlock could tell John none of this.

Had it been anyone else, Sherlock would have divulged the lengths he had gone to get his information. The repercussions, however, for going behind John's back made him loath to disclose this fact. John would consider it a breach of privacy, but Sherlock blamed John's reticence for necessitating his information-gathering action. Given his options, Sherlock firmly believed that retrieving archived files was less about "crossing the line" than digging into John's sock drawer to read Carruthers' letters—as sorely tempted as he had been. He just wasn't sure if John would agree with this distinction between sleuthing and prying. Lest it cause an explosion of another kind from John, something Sherlock had wanted to avoid at all costs, he answered with deliberate misdirection, "There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" John frowned, sensing subterfuge in Sherlock's reply.

"Would've thought it was self-explanatory," Sherlock replied dismissively, amused that John saw through his ploy. "You see, it need not be an actual bomb to achieve its objective. By your reaction, I should say it has 'hit its mark.' Your trepidation is evident in your sweaty palms, your dilated pupils, your rapid breathing, creased brow, the worried set of your mouth—your reaction is more intense than your response had been thus far to the Colonel's letters. This is the desired effect; to escalate the anxiety with an elevated threat." Sherlock shifted his scrutiny back to the parcel. "Still, for someone with the level of PTSD from which you suffer, your composure—humor—in the face of danger is actually quite commendable and indicative of a man who has braved the battlefield with extraordinary courage."

Whilst Sherlock's overt compliment flattered John, he wasn't quite sure if there weren't some ulterior motive. He muttered softly, "I'm beginning to think we _are_ in danger. You're being pleasant."

Ignoring John, Sherlock sized up the package on the table in silence. With a decisive nod of his head, he flipped on the kitchen light and reached for the parcel.

John gasped, "No, Sherlock! Wait! Don't do it!" and lunged protectively toward Sherlock. He grabbed Sherlock in a powerful embrace and maneuvered himself between Sherlock and the parcel. "Call bomb disposal. I can't be responsible…for _more_ deaths…"

John's anguish was as disturbing as his self-recrimination. Faces inches apart, their eyes held. Neither spoke until John relaxed his hold.

"Sorry, sorry," John backed away and raised both palms apologetically. "Didn't mean to…," he shrugged, uncertain if he had affronted Sherlock's personal space, "…but I don't think it's worth the risk. Hadn't expected I'd be putting you and Mrs. Hudson in danger just by moving in here."

"You've not put us in danger, John. If you could trust me on this I can prove it to you." Sherlock realized he was asking a great deal from someone who "had trust issues" and from whom he frequently withheld the full truth, but he waited until John nodded his assent.

Carefully, Sherlock peeled back the wrapping, uncovering a shoebox for men's boots. He removed the lid and peered inside, "Hmmmm."

Lying on its back, with sole exposed, was one old boot, coated in dried mud. Impressed into its sole was a white, flattened clay-like substance.

John's face drained of color when he saw it and pulled back in apprehension. "Careful, Sherlock! It could still be a trick."

John's alarm was palpable. The significance of the boot, while initially unclear to Sherlock, was understood by John all too well. Sherlock gleaned this had been the delivery mechanism—a boot and plastic explosives—that had killed the hospital team.

"There's no trigger mechanism, John," Sherlock sniffed at the off-white material. "And this 'plastic' is child's modeling clay."

The relief on John's face did not dispel his pallor. He had to lean on the tabletop to keep his legs from buckling. Sherlock observed John's reaction and pretended not to notice. It saved him from displaying sympathy—which was altogether perplexing—and spared John the indignity of losing face. _Is this how_ people _handle uncomfortable moments?_

Sherlock feigned interest in the shoebox until John had recovered.

"Well, that's settled," John gave him a sheepish grin, "except now I'm wishing for homemade biscuits."

"Settled?" Sherlock glared in surprised at John. He had not expected such nonchalance with so obvious a threat, especially in light of how distraught John had been moments before. By rights, John should have been furious. "No!" Sherlock shook his head, "The matter's not settled. Why are you allowing him to get away with emotional terrorism? Surely that is what this is."

"It's a long story…."

"Try me. We appear to have time."

John hesitated, then turned and headed upstairs.

Sherlock listened and heard the sound of John's sock drawer opening and closing.

John returned with the three envelopes, including the most crumpled one he had not opened.

Sherlock noted the Carlisle postcode—one of the most northern English cities—and date stamps on each. His trained eye assessed the erratic handwriting similar to the script on the parcel. He noted the rag content of the paper and that the same brand of ink had been used to inscribe each. Removing the two previously opened letters, Sherlock frowned as he read their identical and succinct messages. He held up the third envelope to the light, Sherlock threw John a questioning look; John nodded, granting Sherlock permission to open the third. Sherlock carefully slit the crease. With great care he slid the last letter out, using tweezers. It bore the same baffling message in capital letters across the entire page. It read: DO THE HONORABLE THING!

A stoic John showed no surprise at the newest message in Sherlock's hand. He managed a wry smile. "I…ah…expect you to know what that means…."

"The honorable thing," Sherlock nodded at the proof in his hand of Carruthers' malice. "The interpretation varies greatly, but…"

John licked his lips nervously. "Yeah, so you know—" He swallowed hard. "He wants me do the honorable thing," he whispered hoarsely, "The ancient warrior code thing to die on one's sword…to kill myself—"

88**88


	5. Retribution

88**88

88**88

Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally. Herein lay the motivation he had been seeking. "Tell me why."

"Because I didn't die with the others," John replied grimly.

"Explain."

John remained tightlipped. His reluctance formed a lump in his throat. His eyes darted sideways, then downward, then shifted sideways again—an evasive dance.

Sherlock showed uncommon patience by keeping silent and resisting the urge to demand full disclosure. If he pushed too hard, John would push back by refusing to cooperate. Sherlock used John's moment of indecision, instead, to slide the letters back in their envelopes and place them on the table near the shoebox.

"Yeah, okay," John conceded at last and waved his hand as if to dispel unwanted images. "A team of doctors, nurses and orderlies, friends from my surgical unit, along with recovering patients—thirty-seven people—were killed in an explosion." John halted abruptly.

This was proving difficult. Struggling with his private ghosts, John looked toward the large windows overlooking Baker Street. Twilight slowly dimmed the sitting room. Although he would have preferred the comfort of darkness to shield him from Sherlock's scrutiny, John remained in the kitchen where the lamp overhead illuminated the two men flanking the kitchen table.

He cleared his throat and continued, "We worked in a Tier-2 semi-permanent purpose-built structure that served all wounded—an efficient unit that saved many lives. We had a fine-tuned system that enabled critically injured patients to be brought straight into the operating theatre, rather than waiting for assessment in the emergency tent.

"Anyway, that day…the day of the explosion…. no one was prepared. Had an alarm sounded, we would've put on body armor. And if it required hand-to-hand, we were given regular drills in self-defense. But this was a surprise attack. Hit from right inside the hospital…"

"You hadn't died with the others _because_ …?" Sherlock guided John's narrative back to the salient points he needed.

" _Because_ I wasn't in the hospital when the bomb went off," John answered evasively.

"Where were you on the day of the explosion, then?" Sherlock asked gently, keeping his eagerness for answers out of his voice.

John paused, drew a breath through his nose and briefly closed his eyes. "I was out on the frontlines, at the center of the conflict, dodging enemy fire whilst training the frontline infantry to be medics. That day it was my turn for this battlefield training. We had a rotation system for this operation. When vital medical care was delivered in the first fifteen minutes after injury, it gave our casualties a fighting chance. That's where I was."

"You were nowhere near the base when the explosion happened," Sherlock puzzled. "So, _why_ had Carruthers thought you should die with the others …?"

" _Because_ it was… _my_ patient—an enemy combatant I had operated on the day before—who detonated plastic explosives, presumably concealed in his boots."

"Your patient! An enemy combatant?"

"Look, Sherlock," John protested, "This rehashing of old history is— "

"—essential!" Sherlock interrupted, "in establishing the Colonel's motive behind these letters and now this parcel. I need your account to confirm my suspicions, John."

John chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Okay, so tell me; what _are_ your suspicions, then?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in frustration. "You're asking me to speculate based on arbitrary assumptions or offer a hypothesis based on certain _a priori_ reasoning, but it's still unsubstantiated without the facts. No, John. To reason from insufficient facts is wasted effort and frequently dangerous."

"Knowing you, I'd wager, with the little you have, your hypothesis would be on the money," John sighed, a hint of awe in his voice. "There's no arguing you've made detection nearly an exact science."

Sherlock softened with John's backhanded compliment. He dropped his glance to hide his slight smile. "Facts, John. Facts! Start with why you operated on the enemy combatant."

Sherlock's tone was dispassionate but John still cringed. " _That_ question! It's followed me ever since. It's an ethical thing. We're instructed to treat enemy soldiers equally. 'You're on my table, you're my responsibility.' For some it's a tough call, especially when we're on different sides of the same conflict, but this equal treatment of the injured was established by the Geneva Convention."

John's shoulders lifted in a shrug. "'Equal' is somewhat open to interpretation. Of course we first feel a profound moral obligation to our own soldiers. It's expected—but there _is_ the ethical standard: surgeons 'should treat first whoever is before them.' I mean, as physicians we all took the Standard Medical Oath so most of us accept our medical obligations—our highest priority—whoever the patient was."

Sherlock nodded his head, although John was unsure if it was because he understood the ethics or if he wanted John to continue. "It wasn't the first time I'd performed surgery on the enemy, but it had been a particularly hellish day, with twenty-two casualties medivacked to our OR and more were incoming. The critical were brought directly into the operating theater. Because we got backed up, some patients had to be prepped in the pre-surgical holding area before they were brought to our tables…and this enemy soldier had been prepped there…."

John closed his eyes and grimaced, anguishing over the unforgettable incident and the moments that sealed the fates of his friends—the moments he wished he could change. "We were near the end of the worst cases; the remaining injured weren't as severe. The other surgeons kept opting for our own soldiers among the incoming, but this combatant should've been next in line. His injuries were life-threatening. I decided I wouldn't be jeopardizing the survival of our own troops if I treated him, especially because he had been skipped over by the others. I did the ethical thing."

His eyes snapped open, his voice tight with anger, "I was doing my best to save lives, not thinking who deserved to live. I accept the consequences of my ethical choices..." Feeling the tremor in his left hand, John thrust it behind his back.

Sherlock ignored John's trembling hand and asked, "Where were the soldier's boots when you operated on him?"

"In the prep area, probably. Normally, when the injured came directly into the OR, we'd cut off and discard clothing, gear, whatever needed to be removed so we could conduct emergency surgery. We really didn't spend time inspecting belongings..."

John sank into a kitchen chair and kept his hands under the table. "Who removed his uniform and boots before I got him wasn't my concern. I was focused on the patient, a young kid, really, with a bad abdominal wound. Even after my patch job, I wasn't sure he'd make it. Hours later, when he awoke in recovery, he kept asking for his boots. I remember hearing the nurses remarking to each other about his persistence. One of them joked, 'Must be special boots 'from his girlfriend or mama.' They had a good laugh at that."

A muscle twitched in John's cheek. "Yeah, the boots were _special_ , all right… and the last laugh was the soldier's. I learnt later that a nurse showed sympathy for the man and reunited him with his precious boots." There was no mistaking the bitterness in his words.

Sherlock did not interrupt John with what he knew about PE-4. The plastic explosive had a texture similar to modelling clay and could be molded into any desired shape, like the soles of boots, or hidden in jacket linings or trouser pockets, without exploding. However, it needed a detonator or blasting cap, controlled remotely, to set it off. Was that why the soldier was clamoring for his boots? Was that where had he concealed the detonator?

"Not long after that," John continued, sunk in his memories, "he detonated them; blew up the Recovery Room, everyone around him. My colleagues, personal friends doing rounds with the patients were killed…including Mackenzie Mason…" John's voice caught and he shielded his eyes with his tremulous hand. "Mackenzie _Carruthers_ Mason was Colonel Carruthers' daughter."

John's distress perplexed Sherlock. He turned away and focused on the kitchen window to collect his thoughts. He knew the name Captain Mackenzie Mason from the list of casualties, but as he had not yet checked their backgrounds, he had missed the connection. _Never suspected I was looking for a_ married _woman._

After a long silence, John got control of his voice and resumed, "Mac was ending her tour in just a few days and heading home. She also had just discovered she was pregnant. Nobody was surprised. She had planned it. The month before, she had been off for a brief leave with her husband…." He spoke in a tight whisper filled with regrets. "She was so excited when she announced it—'perfect timing,' she said. You can understand why her death devastated her father." John bowed his head and snorted cynically. "It's ironic, Sherlock! That day—the day of the explosion—I was saved by my rotation. Had I been back at the base hospital, I would've died with the others."

More silence followed until Sherlock prompted John, "Have others held you accountable for this explosion?"

"Huh? Dunno. Don't think so…" John snapped out of his dark thoughts and looked into the distance where his memories lingered. "The Major, my commanding officer—a friend actually—was sympathetic, but quite fair about assessing the situation. He questioned me about the patient, the events that lead up to the explosion, but no, I wasn't held accountable although I was… numb...I couldn't look people in the eyes... Have to admit, I was in shock. Tried to tamp it down. We were short-staffed. _Bloody hell!_ We were at war! Our camp was near the front with the fiercest hostilities. People died. We had to press on, to do our job. There were always more casualties needing help. Time to grieve would've been a luxury," John's jaw clenched, his voice gruff. "About a week later, Karma struck…when I was shot. Bill…" John flicked a bitter half smile, "Bill Murray, army nurse—a great guy—saved my life. He dragged me to safety and medivacked…" John closed his eyes.

Sherlock cocked his head thoughtfully. "I see. So that's why Carruthers blamed you for causing the explosion…"

"Not at first," John's eyes flickered open again and he shook his head. "The Colonel wanted answers: how it happened, how we had let our guard down. Eventually his trail led to me because it was my patient who had …," John pulled back in surprise, "Wait, I said Carruthers was devastated…that he thought I should have died along with the others, but I never said anything about actually blaming me for the explosion." He squinted at his flat-mate with suspicion.

Sherlock blinked. To cover his slip, he answered dismissively, "Isn't it obvious? These letters," Sherlock waved at the stationery and gestured toward the shoebox, "this bomb hoax…suggest as much. He wants to avenge his personal loss, and in his disturbed state of mind, he thinks your death will do that. You were spared the same fate as his daughter. You _could_ have been one of them. You _should_ have been one of them, but for random happenstance of a frontline rotation!"

John averted his face, but not before Sherlock caught a glimpse of his torment.

Sherlock was taken aback by the pain in John's features and had to look away. The sight gave him a plunging feeling he did not recognize— _empathy?_ It took a moment for Sherlock to grapple with his own reaction. He detached from the emotion, regained his composure, then cleared his throat and spoke in a neutral voice, "So, when did his accusations first begin?"

John heaved a soft sigh, "Well, after… weeks, he became vocal with his superiors. He wanted justice for my involvement, denouncing me for being a traitor, for consorting with the enemy. At first, he went only through official channels."

"What action did these official channels take?"

"A summary hearing before a tribunal to determine the ethical standing of my actions. Look, there was no denying the Colonel's grief, his anger…needed to be addressed, so I agreed to the preliminary. It was held in Camp Bastion hospital… where I was first taken after my injuries… The Colonel flew in from the UK to attend." John's mouth twisted. "I needed to face him, too. I hoped we could reach some reconciliation…But he would have none of it."

"What was the decision of the hearing?"

"In the end, I was acquitted of any wrongdoing. They determined I had no direct hand in the outcome. My record was cleared. The tribunal also concluded that my ethical standing was commendable. They upheld that 'all persons, when facing difficult ethical problems, should follow their own consciences as a last resort, with a willingness to accept adverse consequences, but preserving the ability to: _look at oneself in a mirror._ '"

John bit his lower lip to keep it from quivering and shook his head. "When Carruthers failed to get retribution through the legal course, he stayed at Camp Bastion, he pulled rank with the doctors to get visiting rights, and he hounded me. You've heard of survivor's guilt. Yes, well he laid it on thick. He'd stand at my bedside and tell me that I should have died. Justice would be served only if I offed myself."

"What happened when you reported this behavior to the authorities?"

"I didn't have to report him. After several weeks, the hospital personnel overheard his remarks and reported him to his superiors. He was ordered back to London. There was some disciplinary action…I was too sick at the time to know what went in his record. Months later, I heard that he had been deemed mentally unstable and unfit for service. He was forced to retire. His obsession with what happened to his daughter and... his belief I was responsible, unhinged him. I've heard he lives somewhere up north, now."

"So you hadn't filed a harassment report against him?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose in surprise. Given John's heated outbursts when Sherlock tried his patience and his menacing grins when Sherlock pushed too hard, it seemed inexplicable that John would have tolerated such mistreatment quietly, at least not the John Watson Sherlock had frequently observed beneath the mild-mannered façade. "Why, John?

"Why what?" John met Sherlock's curious stare.

"Why hadn't you filed an official protest—?"

John looked away, crossed his ankles, and nervously wiggled one foot. "The Colonel was mentally ill, emotionally unstable. I empathized with his grief. I was the only survivor of that fated team... I was the culprit in his eyes. Other than harangue me, he never lifted a finger against me."

"Words are not without power! They can embed ideas in one's head," Sherlock tapped his own temple for emphasis, before shaking his head. "Besides, John, he was acting irrationally!" he scoffed. "To hold you responsible is illogical. You hadn't been present. You hadn't returned the soldier's boots to him. It had been a series of events outside of your control—"

"—of course it's not rational or logical!" John shot back. "Grief is emotional. It didn't help that I was to blame for saving a suicide bomber. Had I not performed life-saving surgery on the enemy," John drew in a breath to finish in a steady voice, "my friends—Carruthers' pregnant daughter—would still be alive. He'd have a grandchild."

Sherlock tented his fingers under his chin to think before replying. This was a new angle in understanding John, an epiphany about the highly principled man who was his flat-mate. "You hadn't objected to his persecution then because... you felt… _still_ feel... guilt….?"

John sat back in his chair, looked up, his eyes flashing in anger. "Under military law, I was found blameless of his accusations. I acted ethically, yes, but it doesn't mean that for one minute I don't feel to blame!"

"And Caruthers knows it," Sherlock jumped in, "He's counting on it, do you see?"

"I'm quite aware of what Carruthers is doing," John said stiffly through gritted teeth..

Their eyes met and held. The defiance in John's expression alerted Sherlock to tread easy. Sherlock shifted gears, "What happened after Carruthers was ordered to stay away?"

"He did just that, although with all the reshuffling during my convalescence, I wasn't easy to find ...there were problems…and my condition was too precarious… When I was ready to withstand the complications of a short trip, they moved me to the next echelon. I went from one hospital to another wherever there was an opening for someone who couldn't travel far …" John shook away his memories. "Even my relatives were hard-pressed to keep track of me, not that any had. I don't believe my unusual 'itinerary' was ever shared with Carruthers. It wasn't until I was deemed transportable for long distances that I had been finally sent back here…to London. Except for these three letters, I hadn't heard from Carruthers since then."

" _Except_ for now! It all fits! Wonderful!" Sherlock gave a small leap of pleasure and hooted, "There are always some lunatics about. It would be a dull world without them, John!"

John's pulled back in surprise at Sherlock's callousness. "Lunatics?"

"Yes, but it's the subtle ones who are more challenging to catch," Sherlock beamed a gleeful smile, "which Colonel Carruthers is not. His motivation is quite clear. He wants _you_ to do the honorable thing. He wants _you_ to take your own life. He wants to drive _you_ into despair, but he's not willing to compromise his ethics by having a direct hand in killing you himself." Sherlock was so focused that he failed to notice the effect his clinical distance had on the suffering man listening to every word. "Yes! This is indeed satisfactory... it proves that every detail, every interaction, no matter how seemingly banal, has potential—"

_"Sherlock!"_ Stricken by Sherlock's smile and words, John gasped. He jumped up and slammed his palms hard on the table. " _Jesus!_ For a genius you are utterly clueless—."

"Clueless?" Sherlock swung on John, his smile fading to a frown.

John nodded. "Yeah."

Sherlock's forehead furrowed. He scrutinized John's aggrieved grin and in the next moment his eyebrows raised. "Ah, I see, I've wronged you because I'm not displaying appropriate sympathy for…. your emotional discomfort."

John responded through gritted teeth, "Appropriate sympathy? How about... _any_ sympathy?"

Sherlock sighed and turned away in frustration. "Detachment keeps my mind clear and gives me perspective which allows me to determine the problem at hand."

"You forget," John reminded harshly, "I do understand clinical detachment. Emotions get in the way of a clear-head and objective thinking, but when you go so far in suppressing feelings for others…with cold analysis, it's antagonistic…not good...it makes us…me… wonder if you have an ounce of… of human compassion…."

It annoyed Sherlock that there were so many ways to cause offense and he seemed unable to avoid them. He waved his hand as if in introduction. "Hello! High-functioning sociopath, remember?"

"Oh, don't fool me with that… that shite _excuse_ ," John countered but stopped himself from saying more. His gaze dropped to the table top as his mind completed the thought trajectory: _Don't believe it. Granted, you're eccentric because your genius isolates you, but this high-functioning nonsense is a convenient disguise. It lets you get away with… far…too much!_

Sherlock subdued his grin by also looking down at the table. _Impressive, John! Your keen insights surprise me._

His façade of sociopath had _fooled_ everyone—well, except Mycroft—up until now. Sherlock half-believed it himself; his antisocial behavior had come so easily to him and he had hidden behind it for so long. The label freed him to delve deeper into inconvenient truths of others without having to obey polite social protocols. He did not care his conduct was deemed offensive because usually he got the results he was seeking. He did not mind his reputation for being devoid of emotion because keeping personal emotions out of the equation kept his logic pure. Being a high-functioning sociopath fit Sherlock's purposes perfectly, and no one was ever the wiser…

_No one…, except now John Watson…, an uncannily wise man._

"Anyway," John recovered from his irritation and continued in a calmer voice, "whatever your reasons, if you could appear less scientifically _delighted_ in your investigation of my private life…well, that would be appreciated."

"Point taken," Sherlock conceded. Mindful of John's request, Sherlock switched to a less inflammatory demeanor. Surprisingly, it was not difficult to do with John.

"Clearly, your blogs about our cases put you back in the public eye," Sherlock mused. Another thought struck him. "What about her… Mac's..Captain Mason's husband?"

"Captain Stan Mason was killed by a roadside bomb, two months later. I know. All very tragic…" John's sad frown became wary a moment later. "Why do you ask?"

"Because that means he's not complicit with Colonel Carruthers. This is entirely Carruthers' operation." Sherlock seemed pleased again. "Carruthers' tactics are intended to impel you to do self-harm, but I know you, John Watson! You're too stubborn a man to let him push you to the brink." Sherlock pulled out his mobile and auto-dialed, missing John's dark look.

"Hold on!" John's eyebrows arched. "Who're you ringing?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock grinned with glee. "To report a crime."

"Huh? But you just said this is kid's modeling clay …on an old boot? What crime?"

"Colonel Carruthers has made a mistake. This is a bomb hoax. He has broken the law. This is a violation of _The Offences Against the Person Act_ : 'A person who without lawful excuse makes to another a threat, intending that that other would fear it would be carried out, to kill that other or a third person shall be guilty of an offence and liable on conviction on indictment to imprisonment for a term not exceeding ten years.'"

"The man is unwell," John protested, "he's been diagnosed as mentally unstable, Sherlock. There may be reason for leniency. His actions may not be entirely excusable, but, but… this fixation of his has targeted only one person…and if I don't file a complaint—"

"—I disagree, John. Compassion has been your error. Carruthers is escalating his attack with this bomb threat. The more reason to put him away, then! Criminals suffering mental health problems should not escape justice. Now we have the evidence we need. Along with these letters and their implicit messages, he has provided us with proof of a threat to your life. This will put Colonel Carruthers behind bars for many years. This should also dispel your nightmares…Case closed!— _Lestrade!"_ Sherlock shouted into the mobile, his gleaming eyes reflecting the phone's screen. He launched into his ebullient exchange with the DI, bounding into the darkened sitting room and jumping into his chair.

John watched from the threshold of the bright kitchen but made no further protest. There was no stopping Sherlock when his mind was set. It was futile to correct the emotionally detached genius from his oversimplification. For a man who prided himself on decoding the peculiarities of people's character, expressions, and even their clothing to deduce their interests or profession, Sherlock seemed clueless about survivor's grief and guilt and the need for forgiveness. His confidence that the Colonel's plan would _not_ have worked— _I know you, John Watson! You're too stubborn a man to let him push you to the brink_ —was somewhat misplaced.

Carruthers' accusations had been strategic in attacking John's best line of defense, his self-worth. Like many returning soldiers experiencing psychological withdrawal and a sense of isolation, John was vulnerable to the temptation of suicide, especially because, no matter how much time had passed since that fateful day and how ethically he had acted, Captain John Watson struggled to forgive the ex-army surgeon looking back at him from the mirror.

Doing the honorable thing had been getting more difficult to resist when John Watson had first met Sherlock Holmes.

88**88

88**88

_**To be continued...** _


	6. Changing

**88**88**

**88**88**

**_FROM A STUDY IN PINK_ **

_"People don't have arch-enemies," John observed, speaking over a plate of linguini and clams at Angelo's. It was their first stakeout and Sherlock had set a trap. "…In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life." He chewed. "Doesn't happen."_

_"Doesn't it?" Sherlock monitored the pulse of nightlife outside the window, watching, waiting for the serial-suicide murderer to take the bait. "Sounds a bit dull," was his preoccupied answer. He ignored John's next question: "So who did I meet?" by asking his own. "What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?"_

_"Friends," John offered, curious about this potential flat-mate. "People they know; people they like; people they don't like ... Girlfriends, boyfriends ..."_

_"Yes, well, as I was saying – dull."_

**88**88**

**88**88**

Days after Carruthers' arrest, Sherlock and John made "first contact" with Moriarty at the pool.

A fifth hostage of Moriarty's Great Game, John had been strapped in a bomb-vest and forced to recite whatever Moriarty dictated. He stood quietly; memories of Afghanistan chilled him as he watched the interplay between the two masterminds. Faced with the all-too-real threat of dying by explosion and unwilling to be the instrument of his friend's death, John seized an opportunity to save Sherlock. Forfeiting his own life for his mates had been drilled in him as a soldier, but the noble gesture was no less a reflection of John Watson's inborn protectiveness for those he cared about.

After that harrowing ordeal, the ominous threat of future encounters with the consulting criminal had given them a real-life arch-enemy, proving John had been utterly wrong about discounting the existence of arch-enemies and Sherlock had been decidedly right about life being dull without them.

The ensuing week was not dull either. Several clients showed up, little cases, one after the other, that intrigued Sherlock. Some he solved in the flat, others required leg work, and John blogged about them— _Tilly Briggs Cruise of Terror, The Melting Laptop, The Geek Interpreters..._

Another week later, DI Greg Lestrade called Sherlock and John to St. Bart's morgue to examine the body of a woman. Lestrade hovered nearby, waiting as both men leant over the body to confer about the case. From where he was standing, the DI could hear their soft banter but their words were undistinguishable.

"Do people actually _read_ your blog?" Sherlock asked John, snapping open his magnifier to take a closer look at the cadaver on the stainless steel table.

Curious about the odd markings on the woman's body, John remained unfazed by Sherlock's question. They had been disputing the contents, the titles, John's writing style for days. The topic followed them wherever they went, including on opposite sides of a morgue table. Sherlock stubbornly refused to concede there was any correlation with the influx of new cases and the blog publicity—'blog-licity' John's coined phrase—which was why John repeated his best argument. "Where do you think our clients come from?"

"I have a website?" Sherlock rejoined at John's ridiculous question.

"In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco," John sassed back.

Affronted, Sherlock tilted his head and regarded his flat-mate with veiled surprise.

John was too preoccupied to notice and continued his exam. "…Which is why nobody's reading your website."

Simultaneously, each man straightened up, John because he had finished his exam, Sherlock because John's reproach was all too clear.

"Right then," John reported, expecting to compare his observations with Sherlock's and entirely unaware he had hit a nerve. "Dyed blonde hair—,"

Greg stepped closer to hear; neither noticed Sherlock's silence and cold glare.

"—no obvious cause of death except for these speckles." John did not touch the body with his gloved hand; he merely pointed at the spots with his little finger.

The miffed Sherlock's glare became a pout.

" —Whatever they are." John looked up, awaiting Sherlock's input. When none was forthcoming, both he and Greg exchanged puzzled looks over the retreating form exiting the morgue.

Sherlock made no mention about John's provocative comment—certainly not whether it caused him hard feelings—although John's title " _The Speckled Blonde"_ incurred Sherlock's particularly mocking disapproval. More blogs followed: _"Sherlock Holmes Baffled, Hat Man and Robin, The Aluminium Crutch,"_ drawing attention. More clients knocked, more cases, some bigger than others, and some John would never blog about due to their all-too-confidential content.

88**88

It was late evening, six weeks after Carruthers' arrest. A rare moment of quiet had settled over the sitting room in 221B. Sherlock and John sat in facing armchairs, reading. Neither had spoken for a while, until John put down the _BMJ_ and picked up the evening sports page. Moments later, the comfortable stillness was broken by his soft grumbles.

Sherlock's attention drifted from his laptop. John's mouth was set in a thin line of frustration. His reaction was not particularly unusual; the sports news often aggravated him, provoking sighs and soft swearing. Sherlock considered it irrational that John continued to subject himself to the daily disappointment. After listening to huffs of annoyance for more than a minute, Sherlock broke the silence to discuss something on his mind. "Are you aware you're doing that?"

"Doing what?" John looked over the top of the newspaper at his flat-mate. "Oh, you mean, fuming over these _bloody_ football scores?" Vexed, John smacked the sports page. "Sorry. I was hoping for better stats."

"Good statistics are desirable," Sherlock agreed with a half-smile, "The ones I'm currently reviewing are quite positive. Care to hear them?"

"Stats?" John took another glance at the disappointing paper before stifling a yawn. "Let me warn you, Sherlock. I'm too knackered to hear another detailed report about a new kind of ash—"

"Hmmm. I see. Don't suppose you'd noticed, then?"

"Noticed _what_? Why do you even bother to ask?" John snorted a chuckle. "According to you, I'm too unobservant to notice almost everything."

"True, but I'm referring to something that should be obvious even to you."

"Sherlock…" John crumpled the sports page in frustration. "Unless this _obvious_ thing has to do with bringing long-retired Sir Bobby Charlton back to the game, your question is a non sequitur. Haven't got a clue what you're talking about."

"Clueless, John? I've given you a hint!"

"Enlighten me, then!" John closed the newspaper and dropped it in his lap, far too irked by the sports page to object to Sherlock's smirk.

"Very well. I believe you are aware of the changes in your sleep cycles…? I'm reviewing the statistics now." His chin pointed to a spreadsheet on his laptop. "There's been a significant decline in your nightmares. Last night marked twenty-nine days without one disturbance."

"Wait! You've been recording my sleep cycles?" John goggled.

"Of course. They prove I was right: that locking up Colonel Carruthers would end your sleep-disrupting flashbacks. Not to mention that I was correct when I stated that the Colonel would be charged with violating the _Offences Against the Person Act_."

"Yet, you mention it," John countered drily. He couldn't refute the Carruthers' connection with the violent night terrors nor Sherlock's connection that exposing Carruthers' scheme had broken their hold. "So, how are you gathering this data?" John's eyes narrowed. Once he would have taken great offense; now he felt touched by Sherlock's scientific interest in him. It had taken some getting used to but John had become more accepting of the man's quirks. "You know, bugging my room is going a bit too far…"

"Not necessary, John," Sherlock answered matter-of-factly. "The entire flat no longer resonates throughout the night with your loud outcries of distress; there's been no racket from tossing-and-turning in your creaking bed, no moaning and groaning—"

 _Not much of that happening anywhere,_ John thought cynically, s _ince Sarah and I broke it off… not that we'd ever got it on in 221B!_

"—plus in the mornings," Sherlock continued without missing a beat, "your face is less drawn; your periorbital pockets are no longer puffy from sleep deprivation. There's more determination in your manner, more purpose and excitement in your step, your mood is less acerbic, your laugh is less sardonic—except when Mycroft's around, then it's merited—and you generally appear more—"

"—Enough, Sherlock." John snapped the sports page open again and raised it to hide his tight grin, unsure if he should be annoyed or flattered by Sherlock's details. "Okay, okay. I get it! You're right. You're always right!"

"Not always right but _nearly_ always, John. I can distinguish from a number of facts which are incidental and which vital, unlike that idiot Anderson who makes incongruous deductions based upon whatever frequently irrelevant data he has at hand."

Sherlock closed his laptop. With a sudden burst of energy he leapt from his chair and picked up his violin. As he tuned the instrument he reflected on John's trustworthiness and courage in every case they had shared thus far. He smiled to himself at his great fortune. Here now was someone who shared his passion for all that was bizarre or outside the conventions and the humdrum routine of everyday life _. Correction, not just_ someone _—a soldier and a doctor—an added bonus._ "To think, Carruthers believed he could guilt John Watson into suicide," he scoffed softly and then with _brio_ , launched into a selection from the _Mystery Sonatas_ by Heinrich Ignaz Franz Biber.

**8*8**

John had been feeling more like _that_ "John Watson" to whom Mike Stamford had referred; more like _that_ "very good" army doctor he had claimed with pride when Sherlock asked if he had been "any good?" Sherlock was right. John had not felt _this_ good for quite some time. Since the tragedy in Afghanistan, regret had muddied his sense of self, his purpose in life, and made it difficult for John to find forgiveness for the blame he carried. Sherlock's observations had had an unexpected and welcome affect: confirmation that he was on the right track.

It was true. With Carruthers arrested and charged, John's guilt-driven self-doubts had begun to ebb like an outgoing tide. Still, Sherlock was only partially correct as to the reason why John appeared more at peace with himself.

John had chosen to appeal on the Colonel's behalf for a lighter sentence rather than seek retribution with the prosecution to lock him up for a long time. Helping others brought out the best in him, but it also had to do with his loyalty to the dead. He felt he owed a debt to Mac, to each of his dead friends, to be worthy of his survivorship. And deep down, John had hoped—no, needed, to know—that by maintaining his high standards, by continuing down the path of a principled life he had always followed, he would be honoring his friends who died. The Colonel's relentless rancor had made it hard to believe forgiveness was possible, but more, it had obscured for too long what mattered more to John: absolution from the dead he strove to honor.

**88**88**

**88**88**

Captain John Watson served with Carruthers' daughter, Captain Mackenzie Mason, when he was assigned to Helmond Province. Along with the other surgeons, nurses, and paramedical members in their unit, theirs was a tight-knit group, no different than the intense bonds between the soldiers on the frontlines. Under uncomfortably hot conditions in a crowded emergency department, subject to the pungent odors of blood, burned flesh and toxic residue, the staff remained focused on the basics and clinical aspects of patient trauma care. The medical team relied upon each other to stay sane despite the insanity of a foreign war, the constant influx of wounded who burst through the OR doors, and the vivid reminders that Death was a misstep away.

Fast friendships formed within the operating unit and continued outside, during the lulls between treating casualties, when the surgeons chit-chatted about sports, celebrities, food—anything to distract them from horrors they regularly witnessed. Inevitably, as they grew to know each other, their conversations turned to the deeper topics of personal philosophies, future plans, and family matters, both the good and the bad.

Most found it easy to confide in Mackenzie Mason. She was a sympathetic listener. One evening, John had found himself sharing his concerns about his sister when he and Mac had taken a dinner break,.

"It's no secret, they're in love." Dinner tray in hand, he had followed the tall young woman to a table in the Officer's Mess. "But I'm afraid Clara won't be strong enough to deal with Harry's drinking—we've been down this road before."

"Sorry." Mac sat down and picked up her cutlery. "I know alcohol dependence is considered a disease, but I see how it can be a mental obsession that causes a physical compulsion to drink."

"True." John took the seat opposite the pert "ginger," aware she had spoken as if from experience. He hesitated at first then asked anyway, "Someone in your family with a similar compulsion…?"

She laughed, her amber-hazel eyes crinkling. "Well, I'm _quite_ well acquainted with obsessive compulsives, you know." When she realized John was not in on her joke, she told him about her renowned father.

"Everyone who works with him knows." Mac tucked into the precious, rarely available green salad but only poked at the rehash of spam and boiled potatoes. "So I'm not revealing any secrets. Dad has a mild obsessive-compulsive disorder. He's actually proud of it. He says it makes him perfectly suited for military life. And surprisingly, research backs him up."

As most in the RAMC, John had known Carruthers by reputation only, but what he knew was impressive: upon completing the Defense Medical Services training program at Whittington Barracks in the late seventies, Walter Carruthers distinguished himself through his devotion to work. He had volunteered as needed, worked well with others, obeyed orders, meticulously followed rules and procedures and made every effort to get the job done. A consummate career soldier, he rose through the ranks; his attention to detail was second to none, earning him honors and medals and eventually the two "Bath Stars below the St Edward's Crown"— his Colonel insignia. Once assigned to the 256th, City of London Field Hospital in the 2003, he ensured order was upheld by all under his command. He remained a formidable force who championed the medical-service needs of all Army personnel and their families, including aftercare for those injured on operations as well as funerals and repatriations.

"Huh? Didn't know about the mild OC," John replied, hungrily scooping up the pile of hash on his plate, grateful it was palatable, "but it explains a lot."

"Holding oneself to the highest standards…" Mac listed on her fingers. "Courage, discipline, respect for others, integrity, loyalty, and selfless commitment in service is one thing." She pushed back in her chair and smiled at John. "Kinda describes you, Watson. That's impressive since you don't have OC, but my dad...well, can you imagine having someone like Colonel Walter Carruthers—the apotheosis of the military-career man—as your father?"

"No." John shook his head, recalling the difficulties at home with his own parents and his father's lack of commitment to his marriage and children. "Can't say I had that problem… "

She sighed. "It's not always easy to live up to his standards of excellence. Growing up, I hadn't realized how extraordinary he was. Since I signed on, I have not met many officers who identify with and support the military's objectives as completely as he does. He lives and breathes it. Now I realize that's what sets him apart. And he built his reputation on being perfect in everything!" Mac smiled with warmth in her eyes. "That included being the perfect dad. With mum gone since I was eight, he had to do double duty. Yeah, that was real tough, but he was amazing. Definitely up to the challenge. Although sometimes he was _too_ perfect and I'd have to tell him to step back and give me room to breathe. Still I love him and wouldn't want him to change."

"Must have been hard, then, living with an obsessive compulsive perfectionist?"

"Yes and no. He's critical but with a forgiving side. Anyway, as an army brat, I'd seen all kinds of parents who may not have been classified OC but acted far worse. Talk about irrational!" She grinned before attacking a slice of potato. "Okay, sometimes it was a bit rough, but I knew he'd do anything for me. I realize now, he was compensating for our loss."

Although never good at expressing personal sentiment, John had admired her resolve to love a man who seemed quite difficult.

**88**88**

**88**88**

* * *

**more to come...**


	7. Changes

**88**88**

**8*8**

_"…anything for me…compensating for our loss…."_ John sat in the solicitor's wood-paneled office, recounting Captain Mackenzie Mason's words to Carruthers' legal team. To alleviate the stress of the painful memory, he drummed his fingers on the arm of the leather chair.

It was still a week before the first hearing and they were working on the mental health aspects of the case. Along with the psychological profile the army provided upon the Colonel's discharge from service, John's testimony was crucial. He met with Carruthers' solicitors to share substantive insights that would make a case in the Colonel's defense and to elucidate the Colonel's mental state as only he was in a position to do. John was seeking leniency for a man who, through an exacerbation of an underlying personality disorder, had become unrecognizable to those who had known him before the tragic events in Afghanistan.

"Mac had been right about the structured life of the military," John continued as coffee was handed round. "I've read the studies and followed the research about how an ordered life-style mitigates the underlying anxiety and intolerance of uncertainty that OCDs experience."

Solicitor Clive Hopper, a stout man with thick glasses and thinning gray hair, half sat on the front of his massive desk and folded his arms. Whilst his assistant counsel, Thomas Owens, quietly took notes nearby, he directed his attention at John. "Do you feel, Dr. Watson, this explains his offensive against you."

"Unquestionably. I'm a surgeon, not a psychologist, but I had the requisite rotation during training and I'm sure his psychological tests will back me up. I believe that the Colonel was so devoted to his daughter—his only remaining family—that her loss threw him into uncertainty and anxiety and triggered a massive shift in his personality and behavior. His staff confirmed this, as you've read in their sworn statements. Worse—it put his military career in jeopardy."

"We already know his failure to exhibit good citizenship," Hopper interjected, "resulted in serious action from the service."

"Yeah. That was the problem." John pushed back in his chair and shook his head. "Carruthers disobeyed his superiors about harassing me and drew the consequences. I'm sure you checked his record…the counseling, the written documentation…before they ordered his separation. They tried their best to have him retire with honors. His obsession for justice had fixated on me. There was no denying that after he was forced to retire because of me, it gave him another reason for his enmity."

"Yet you waited all this time to raise a formal complaint," Hopper pressed, seeking to understand John's motives. "It's odd that you delayed filing charges until now. Why have you changed your mind?"

"Not changed my mind, exactly. I had no reason to make a complaint. After his superiors had forced his discharge, he stopped. Since then, I've had no contact from him. Only in the last few months, though, I started receiving his letters. I wanted to ignore them. Stalking me is one thing." John shrugged. As a doctor, he took seriously his responsibility to care for others—including Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock—from actual bombs. "But ….well, now, with a bomb threat, the Colonel's broken a more serious law. I'm afraid he's becoming a danger to himself and others. He needs help."

8*8

The night before the hearing, John set up the ironing board in the sitting room. He was deep in thought, pressing his best dress shirt; his suit trousers, also in need of pressing, were draped over the back of the cigar chair.

Sherlock observed John from the kitchen whilst conducting a small experiment. Although he had been aware of John's involvement in the legal process—as an advocate for mercy and forgiveness—he had refrained from questioning why. For the most part, Sherlock had stayed out of John's business. However, researching cold cases and keeping tabs on the criminal element prowling the city had failed to divert his persistent curiosity. _The consequence of having a flat-mate_ _for so many months, always underfoot…causing distractions…,_ Sherlock rationalized. He had no other reason for his failure to maintain a cool disinterest in John's concerns.

John's ironing continued to disturb Sherlock's concentration. Sliding his safety goggles to his forehead, Sherlock called across the threshold. "First official hearing tomorrow, then?"

John looked up from his task. "Yeah. Catching the 8.07 …Won't be home for supper."

Sherlock slid his goggles back down, dispensed several droplets from the pipette filled with vinegar into the vial and inspected the reaction. He bent over his notebook to record his findings. "Would you like company?" He asked without looking up.

John grunted in surprise and tilted his head, "Seriously?"

Sherlock jotted a few more notes before replying, "If there's no objection."

"You sure?"

Sherlock straightened up to see his friend holding the iron up in the air and staring at him. "Of course," he said with conviction.

"Right, then." John nodded and resumed his ironing, not before Sherlock caught a glimpse of his half smile and heard his pleased, "Sure!"

8*8

When he and Sherlock entered the Magistrate's Court, John was shocked by the physical changes in Colonel Walter Carruthers. There was little resemblance to Carruthers' formal military portrait—a robust officer, cropped hair, greyed at the temples, keen eyes, a stern mouth, and a proud expression. Rather, the Colonel appeared a withered old man who, during the hearings, proved to be his own worst enemy. The defendant showed no contrition for his offense and openly railed against Captain Watson—failing to recognize that the man against whom he was inveighing was sitting in the court. Carruthers displayed himself a man unhinged before the magistrate. Solicitor Hopper could not kerb his client's outspoken and unveiled threats and the Courts could not ignore them.

"—consorted with terrorists!"

"—should've died instead of my daughter!"

With jaw set and eyes staring past the ranting man, John steeled himself for the onslaught. Disturbing as Carruthers' behavior was in the court, he had experienced the Colonel's malice at his bedside in hospital. The man's tirade, played out for the Court, was more disquieting for the memories it resurrected.

"—killed all his colleagues! He should be executed. Shot! Hung! Quartered… Bring back the death penalty for treason! If there is justice still in the realm, he MUST die!"

Sherlock sat beside John in the courtroom quietly observing the entire proceedings. The Colonel's indignities drew the Court's attention, but more remarkable to Sherlock was the dignity John Watson displayed in drawing upon his inner resources to maintain control and calm in the face of Carruthers' deranged rambling.

At last, the Magistrate gaveled for silence and directed the Colonel's legal team to restrain their client or he would be held in contempt. Solicitor Barrister called for a continuance, requesting the hearing resume the following day.

When John and Sherlock returned the next day, the Colonel appeared more subdued in the courtroom, obviously sedated for his own good. In the calmer courtroom, legal counsel prevailed in persuading the Court what was best for the Colonel. They considered Carruthers' exceptional service record before the onset of his mental illness and rendered a decision John could live with. Carruthers was sentenced to a high-security psychiatric hospital for long-term care. It was a humane placement and John found solace that Mac's father would be in good hands.

Once, after Carruthers' placement, John had made a special trip to the high-security institution to visit the Colonel. For Mac's sake he wanted to ensure the Colonial was receiving an appropriate level of care. He had hoped the course of treatment, which included psychiatric medication, psychotherapy, and occupational therapy, would restore Carruthers' soundness of mind. He regretted the lost opportunity to open a dialog with him. There was so much he had wanted to share about Mac's bravery and medical acumen, the perfection of her stitches, her kindness and generosity towards the patients and hospital personnel. He had wanted to give Carruthers a lifeline back to sanity with something to cherish, fond memories about his remarkable daughter.

After gaining clearance from security, his request for a face-time visit with Carruthers was denied. "Sorry, Dr. Watson, the patient has requested no visitors…." The institution's administrator wore a sad expression, implying, _especially not John Watson._

"Quite." John conceded with a shrug and left to catch an immediate train back to London. Settling in for the two-hour journey, he scratched the rough, late-afternoon bristle on his chin and gazed out the window at the landscape sliding past. _Sherlock predicted it would be a waste of time_. _As usual, he's right._ _I'm being stubborn and unrealistic!_

Several weeks after the Colonel entered the psychiatric hospital, he suffered a debilitating stroke. That door to dialog had decidedly closed, but in the wake of the Carruthers' case, John began to notice that another was opening wider than before—his connection to Sherlock. Still an "annoying dick" half the time on an ordinary day, his flat-mate had demonstrated a reserved sensitivity with the Carruthers case. In fact, Sherlock's non-judgmental presence—beside him in the courtroom and on the train back to London after the sentencing—had lifted John's spirits, a cleansing and binding of a wound that until Sherlock's involvement, John had despaired might never heal.

.

**88**88**

John carried on as Sherlock's flat-mate and took on more cases to blog— _the Royal Appointment, Sherlock Holmes Baffled_. Thanks to the growing visibility of John's blog, Sherlock was becoming an internet sensation; more clients came knocking on their door. And while compared to Sherlock's genius, John's detecting skills were lacking, he contributed in another important way: his down-to-earth prose provided their widening audience a comprehensible translation of Sherlock's esoteric logic

More months passed, more mysteries continued for the pair. They encountered The Woman, dealt with the Hound and John blogged about it to their fans' delight. Case after case, they followed clues and deciphered solutions. Sometimes they suffered the tedium of evening stakeouts in cold warehouses and back alleys, ate tepid takeaway—at least John had—at three in the morning. Back at the flat, they disagreed about what belonged in the fridge, whose turn it was to pick up milk, and that having cab fare _was_ necessary because cabbies expected to be paid. They argued often and heatedly about human motivations and social decorum, and minutes later would agree that boring people who wanted to ride on their rising wave of fame were intolerable. They played board games, _Cluedo_ , _Pick-up Sticks_ , _Mastermind_ , and they laughed—longest and hardest about the imperious Mycroft—as well as at themselves for their sometimes ridiculous adventures.

Working with Sherlock proved John's best therapy. It helped him quietly surmount his grief. His unvented post-service rage found a release on the "battlefield" he walked with Sherlock Holmes. Months passed and the partnership persevered, trust grew, and a friendship took root and flourished. In Baker Street, each man experienced a sense of home and the assurance that each had the other's back, no matter what came their way.

**88**88**

The day that began with shocking revelations, New Year's Eve ended in welcome and well-earned peace. John helped himself to a celebratory whiskey and Sherlock picked up his violin. Big Ben chimed.

_We'll take a cup o' kindness yet_

_For auld lang syne_

When Sherlock had played the final bars of _Auld Lang Syne_ , he did not move to put the violin away. Rather, he stood still, his slender silhouette framed by the window, and looked out over his London. For a long spell, he seemed content for silence to fill the space, and then he muttered ever so softly, "After all, it's the season of kindness and charitable gestures, a time of forgiveness for all our missteps in life."

It was an odd and intimate remark for a man who disdained sentiment.

John sipped the whiskey and savored the warm, smooth flavor on his tongue, wondering if he had heard correctly, uncertain if Sherlock's soft-spoken insight was meant for his ears. Who was Sherlock forgiving? The Woman who had faked her death or himself for falling into her trap?

_Forgiveness! A virtue? An emotion?_ Whatever it was, it had eluded John. Feeling unforgiven had been at the crux of his PTSD depression and purposelessness, the cause of his somatic limp, the wound that would not heal. It had been the worm in his ear—not the gun in the bedsit drawer—that had tempted him to relieve the pangs of guilt and blame he endured after being invalided from the army. But all this had begun to change—John had started on the path of self-forgiveness—because of Sherlock.

_"Must have been hard, then, living with an obsessive compulsive perfectionist?"_ he had said long ago to Mac.

_"Yes and no. He's critical but with a forgiving side…"_ she had answered.

He compared his parallel reality with Sherlock Holmes to Mac's OC-challenged father and the similarity was not lost on John. His thoughts rushed back to that late-January day when he met the consulting detective. Since then, he had survived nearly a year without throttling his perfectionist, obsessive flat-mate, a demanding man who had turned his life around whilst turning it topsy-turvy. John had not been bored, there was that. Nor had he been sunk in despair—he'd been too busy. Sherlock had seen to that. John had been at Sherlock's side through it all and slowly had become integral to their investigations.

Reviewing the unforgettable, a rarely-a-dull-moment year now, John was persuaded that had been Sherlock's scheme all along. _And what of it?_ he thought as he finished his drink. He felt a jolt of fierce allegiance to the man who had saved him from doing the _honorable_ thing. _Maybe we saved each other_ , came to John's mind unbidden and that sense of allegiance gave way to an unexpected sense of peace as the strains of the Old Scots tune faded in his head.

**88**88**

Six months later, John's wounds would reopen deeper than before as the sole survivor of yet another tragedy.

88**88

88**88

More to come...


	8. Warning Signs

**From _The Reichenbach Fall:_**

_"You're not exactly a private detective anymore!" John had worried after reading the newspaper about Boffin Sherlock Holmes and Bachelor John Watson. "You're this far…" he left a pinch of air between his index finger and thumb to demonstrate, "from famous."_

_"Oh, it'll pass," More bothered by Scotland Yard's gift—a deerstalker hat, which Sherlock was sure they had intended as an insult—he had slumped into his armchair, pouting._

_"It'd better pass," John had warned. "The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they'll turn on you!"_

**88**88**

**88**88**

John could not have been more right. There had been no _turning_ back Moriarty's lies once they took hold in the press. Public opinion and the Met also _turned_ against the consulting detective, but most unfathomable to John, was that, in _turn_ , Sherlock took his own life. Sherlock had never given a _damn_ what anyone thought…

Tortuous visions haunted John's dreams. Flashbacks of war and explosions mingled with distressing memories of Sherlock's drop off St. Bart's. In the dark bedroom of his new flat, his own cries of loss and alarm woke him nightly; then sleep would refuse to come. Instead, unbidden, his mind usually found a memory to torment him.

Barely a month after Sherlock's death, John awoke startled and trembling. He tossed back the sweat-drenched sheets and waited until the room stopped spinning. He got up and went to the _en suite_ to quench his parched throat. Ducking his head under the tap to drink, he let the cool water flow along his temple, his cheek, his tongue, and pool in his mouth, swishing it around until it diluted the dismay that had roused him. He toweled his hair and face dry and stumbled back to bed. As he lay on his back with his arms folded under his head and stared at the ceiling, John recalled the last disagreement in their flat:

" _I don't care what people think."_

_"You'd care if they thought you were stupid, or wrong."_

_"No, that would just make them stupid or wrong."_

Why would the genius detective, who did not care what stupid or wrong people thought, suddenly despair about his ruined reputation, enough to commit suicide? This impossible contradiction baffled John. Over and over, he replayed their dispute in his mind.

_"Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're—"_

_John's unfinished statement had grabbed Sherlock's complete attention. He had looked up from his laptop, waiting for John to continue. The longer John had delayed replying, the greater grew Sherlock's frustration that John doubted him. Unsettled, Sherlock's expression had hardened like ice. After a scant nod of his head, he pushed for an answer. "That I am what?"_

_"A fraud."_

_"You're worried they're right."_

_"What?"_

_"You're worried they're right about me."_

_"No."_

_"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well."_

_"No, I'm not."_

_"Moriarty is playing with your mind too._ _Can't you_ see—" _Sherlock had whacked the table hard, erupting in fury "—what's going on?_

Distraught, John sat up in bed and scrubbed down his face, remembering the tense moment that followed, wishing he had expressed himself more forcibly, more clearly. He suspected now, in hindsight, that Sherlock had misunderstood his reaction. _Had something cued him—my frown, my swallow before I answered_ _—_ _to make him think I was lying? Had he interpreted my glance out the window as doubt? Bloody hell, I hadn't wanted to argue. I had just wanted to stop what was happening to him—to the both of us—when I said: "No, I know you're for real."_

_Eyes down, Sherlock had not so much as looked up but resumed typing on his laptop, his voice coldly neutral. "A hundred percent?"_

_"Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying_ DICK _all the time."_

 _Dammit!_ Self-recrimination propelled John from bed. He paced in tight circles around it, his head so filled with things not said, he began to speak them aloud. "I saw you…" his index finger stabbed the air, poking toward the mental apparition of Sherlock seated at the sitting-room table. The memory floated—a ghost in the room. "I saw it…It was there, at the corner of your mouth, that slight uptick… you smiled! You understood. You believed I _was_ one hundred percent behind you, didn't you?"

Livid, John delivered a swift punch into his bed pillow. An instant later, he swept it up to cover his mouth and let loose a stream of profane curses and anguished sobs. Nothing allayed his unremitting dread: that he had failed to save the man to whom he owed so much—his best friend—who had saved him from so cowardly an act.

"So, what happened?" John groaned after he dropped the pillow, appealing to the ceiling he could not see in the dark room. He palmed the tears from his eyes. "What sent you over the edge, you... you... _utter_ cock? Some spur-of-the-moment despondency, was it? It didn't matter to you what I thought, huh?"

Instantly recalling that he shouted " _You machine!"_ chilled John. "Oh my God. Nonononono! _Bloody hell!_ " He offered his excuses to the ceiling, muttering, "Couldn't budge you to help Mrs. Hudson. It was exasperating! No! You couldn't have thought... I…I… had turned on you? Can't believe that's why you did it!"

John sat on the edge of the bed, despondent, too spent to weep, too exhausted to think. He lay down on his back, clutched the pillow against his chest and waited for the grey light of morning. And as he waited, the swirl of unanswered questions formed a dense cocoon around his turbulent emotions. When he finally rose to greet the day, he felt numb.

**88**88**

Once again a survivor gutted with grief and guilt, John masked his misery and mustered his resolve to soldier on, to bear the torch of truth about Sherlock's innocence—Sherlock Holmes was not a fake—to shed light on the facts with all who would listen. He persevered, though he was thwarted at every turn by an unusually obstinate public opinion. It was as if the media had been persistently fed the scandalous lies. Even the mighty Mycroft—with whom John had had little contact since Sherlock's death and whom he despised beyond measure—had been silent about the truth and done nothing to persuade the prevailing sentiment to restore his brother's extraordinary legacy.

**8*8**

On his darkest days, numbness was John's constant state of mind. Other times the sharp pangs of memory would jab at him unexpectedly. A biting retort in the pub sounding like Sherlock—down to the snarky inflection—would compel John to turn around to see the stranger attached to the voice. Someone rushing to the Tube with a familiar purposeful stride would make John do a double take, but again, the resemblance vanished upon closer inspection. It crushed him each time. The more his senses, his wishful thinking resurrected Sherlock, the more he missed his friend _._ It was too painful. It was why he had avoided familiar haunts and had forgone visiting those people he and Sherlock had known in common.

But three months after Sherlock's death, he had found a purpose to help him deal with his grief. On his days off from the surgery he had made it a regular routine to head north.

Once during this time, he had made a brief stop at the high-security psychiatric hospital where Colonel Carruthers had been sentenced to reside by the criminal justice system. The slim thread of his allegiance to Mac tugged at him, even if Carruthers declined to see him. After verifying that her father was being properly treated, he felt his obligation to her fulfilled. However, several miles away from the psychiatric hospital was the main focus of his weekly trips—the Veterans Hospital in which John's former Commander Major James Sholto continued his recovery from severe war injuries.

"How's he this morning, Dr. Phelps?" John greeted the chief resident in the burn unit. John had become a familiar face to the staff.

Phelps swung around and inspected John over the tops of his reading glasses. "Hello, Dr. Watson," he replied, waving the clipboard he had been reading. His nasally voice made it sound as though he was perpetually whingeing but his warm smile dispatched that impression. "Coming along… Your Major is a stoic man, quite hard to read. But his aides report a change in his outlook whenever he's expecting you…."

John flashed a wry half-smile, comforted to know he was of some help. Like John, Major Sholto was a lone survivor whose life had been changed by misfortune, except the man was caught in the cross-fires of unrelenting media attacks at home and the punishing press which hounded him. It was enough to make one a recluse.

It had been two months since Sholto survived a surprise attack—an Afghan-infantry ambush—that had killed his new recruits and left him severely wounded from explosions and gunfire. Half his face had been badly burnt and his left arm paralyzed. Whilst his career-ending injuries had earned him the Victoria Cross medal for valor "in the presence of the enemy," his return to the UK had brought him no hero's welcome, merely blame and abuse, drawing the enmity of the _crows'_ families whose loved ones had been killed in the attack.

"Major?" John stood at the threshold of the patient's room and saluted the man seated in the bedside chair. The gesture of respect was immediately followed by his warm grin. "Permission to enter, sir?"

"Watson!" Sholto mumbled through scar-tightened lips. His answering smile was a twisted grimace, distorted by the Transparent Facial Orthosis. He gave a slight nod, curtailed by the restrictive scars under the clear bandage on his neck.

John said nothing about the TFO that covered the left half of Sholto's face and neck. He made no attempt to aid the wounded man who pushed himself from the chair with his good arm and got to his feet. John pointedly did not look at the left arm dangling at the Major's side. He observed the physical and emotional pain in the slump posture of the once-towering figure of the high-ranking officer, but John was not there as a doctor. He was not there to embarrass his former commander by rushing to aid him and thereby deny him his dignity. John was there as a friend, because that was what James Sholto needed from him.

"You see, Capt'n Watson…" the Major struggled to speak clearly despite the taut skin around his mouth **.** He gestured toward his hospital bed. "Not quite busy…." The twinkle in Sholto's sky-blue eyes did more to convey his appreciation for his former officer's visit than his simple words. During the three years they served together on rescue missions and Taliban attacks, their friendship had been forged under fire, making it as durable as steel. "Come in, Watson," Sholto waved him forward, his hand extended. "Good to see you."

They clasped hands in greeting and exchanged more lopsided grins before Sholto continued to role-play. "What brings y' round, then, soldier?"

"The usual, sir," John responded, slightly relaxing his military posture. "How're you holding up?"

It was a fair question. No soldier came home unscathed from war. John's return to civilian life had not been easy. His struggles to emerge whole in the aftermath of service had made it clear that all too often post deployment was almost worse than war. Here lurked the dangers of isolation, the unraveling of purpose, protocols and the absence of bonding over life-and death-experiences. Here the returning soldier was adrift, unable to articulate the horrors of armed conflict. Here —at home—few could grasp the emotional and intellectual justifications for military actions that left scars deeper than burn-blasts and shoulder injuries. But Captain John Watson understood and would not let Major James Sholto suffer this torment alone.

"Holdin' up as expected." Sholto looked away from John's scrutiny, giving his face-saving words the lie.

"Your doctors assure me you're showing marked improvement," John pressed with gentle emphasis. It was obvious that the burnt flesh on Sholto's cheek and neck were healing well, although the damage to his left arm was too severe to expect full recovery. "Good news considering…," John trailed.

Initially, Sholto's survival had been uncertain. The army's optimal medical-evacuation system made quick work of bringing the Major and several of his similarly injured crows to the burn unit. Intubation maintained their oxygen supply to their lungs, gastric feeding tubes provided sustenance, and their burnt flesh and maimed limbs were cleaned and treated to prevent infection. But after all the medical interventions, recovery was never a given. Of seventeen returning men, only Major James Sholto had come through the ordeal.

"Yes. Can't argue. They're encouraged."

"How about your spirits, then? —"

"—Spirits!" the Major interrupted, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "Now, you're talkin', Watson," he joked and smacked his lips. "You are indeed the clever Captain if you sneaked in spirits to lift mine…!"

"Sorry, sir," John broke into a sheepish grin, his eyes crinkled with amusement. "No jurisdiction here. No privileges either. Or I assure you, I'd have brought up some very hard medicinal tonics… When you're discharged, we might go out for a pint… something harder, perhaps?"

"Shall hold you to it, John," Sholto said, suddenly seeming weary from his exertions. His twisted smile faded. He sighed and sank back onto his chair.

"And I shall hold you to it, as well, Jim." John's eyes narrowed with concern. He was dead serious about extracting a commitment to ensure Sholto did not succumb to the "black dog." Depression, especially for burn patients, was not uncommon. Whilst most suffered acute stress symptoms from PTSD—irritability, restlessness, sleep disturbance, mood instability, fatigue, and intrusive imagery—these stressors faded or became more manageable with time. Some burn victims—the ones in greatest danger of self-harm—never stopped suffering with acute exacerbation of past trauma symptoms or unresolved grief.

Their dropped conversation left the hospital room momentarily quiet, quiet enough for the former comrades to hear the muffled but distinctly angry chanting from below Sholto's closed window. John crossed to the window and peered down at the small but vocal group of protestors holding up signs, signs denouncing the "Major Murderer."

"I saw them when we drove in," John eyed the mix of old and young men and women just beyond the hospital grounds. The same angry mob had clamored for justice every time John visited Sholto. Although he would only visit Sholto once a week, John assumed this was a daily event. "How long do they keep at it, then?"

"Till security sends them off. Used to be a larger group. Fewer hostiles than before. Except, there's a core group that won't give up." Sholto cleared his throat. "Can't blame them…."

"This group seems particularly threatening…." The taxi John had caught at the train station had had trouble maneuvering through the vocal throng as it entered the hospital drive. They shouted at the approaching vehicle; one man pounded the cab's bonnet and others peered into the car windows with scowling faces. "My cabbie today was afraid to cross the line…had to persuade him they wouldn't attack…."

"Still the courageous leader running toward danger, eh, Captain?" The Major darted a look toward the window, "even hordes of irate civilians."

John shrugged and dropped his gaze in discomfort at Sholto's praise.. "More like running _into_ danger…lately…"

"Yeah. Heard what happened to your friend...right before... _this._ " Sholto looked at his lifeless left arm. Emboldened by his own losses, the Major asked pointedly, "How's _that_ going...?"

John grimaced. Sholto had strayed into territory John had been avoiding by not crossing paths with Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly Hooper. Molly, particularly, had been scarce since Sherlock had died. _She's probably devastated, like me, poor girl._

John had moved out of the Baker Street flat a few weeks after Sherlock's death. He could not stay in that hollowed flat where memory continually wounded him. It had been similar to being caught in a hellish time loop of that moment in Afghanistan when the inescapable searing bullet took him down. Living in _their_ flat had hurt too much, more than he had expected. Except "life goes on," and that was how John managed to get on with _his_ life each day, one hour, one minute at a time.

John gathered his thoughts in silence instead of giving Sholto an immediate answer. He again looked out the hospital window upon an ugly scene: people were waving banners with messages that denigrated a genuine war hero, a decorated officer, a selfless, intelligent, brave, and honorable man. Perhaps it was why, this once, John felt more inclined to answer the Major than his therapist.. Lately, their sessions had seemed at a standstill.

"How's it going, you ask?" John snorted and shook his head. "Can't really say. Trying to do the...um, therapy bit, again...but you know. It's just talk... Sometimes it's good, there's a value in it, other times 'just talk' doesn't always cut it... Will stick with it...though, because it's better than—"

"—Than the alternative….." Sholto muttered in grim understanding.

"That's the thing," John frowned. "I've thought about... _decided_ about the… 'alternative' before... _this...this latest thing..._ with my friend _._ Those long stretches of being alone, when there seemed to be nothing after the service—yeah, they were tough and dangerous. But... then, things got better, got turned around…out of the blue. Sher…," John couldn't say Sherlock's name without his throat tightening. " _He_ rescued me … from doing…. something… stupid… dishonorable…." John closed his eyes. "It … _he_ was what I needed when I needed it…a friend—" John swallowed hard and looked out the window again, unseeing the crowd, the beautiful day. "It's what I _hope_ for now... something to turn my life around still...for the better."

In the silence, the rancor of raised voices chanting, " _Major Murderer Major Murderer Major…"_ infiltrated the room.

"You don't deserve this, Jim." John tilted his head toward the window and glanced back at Sholto.

"They can't conceive the hardship, the isolation and the danger. They only understand their losses. But I _am_ to blame," Sholto confessed in a soft whisper, "for their losses."

"No, no, no, no. "John gave him a stern look. "You might think that, but you're not entirely to blame; your intelligence never alerted you to an ambush ….just like I hadn't known my patient was a suicide bomber. These were events outside our control—"

 _"It had been a series of events outside of your control—"_ The sound of Sherlock's voice from what now seemed ages ago startled John. For the briefest instant, despite what he knew was true, his eyes darted through the room in search of his dead friend—a reflex whenever he "heard" that voice. Recovering quickly from the mental interruption, he continued, "We'll all face death some day, but those who live carry the memory of those who died. That's our responsibility, to keep them alive …to be _worthy_ of surviving what they didn't. Then, be _happy_ we survived to live our lives. Make them proud. Anyway, I know you, Major! You'd rather have died than let any of your men perish."

Sholto managed a contrite smile. "But, not the way it turned out, was it?"

"You were _with_ them on the mission. It was blind luck that only you survived."

" _God damn it!_ They were under my command. Blind luck or not, I'm responsible for each life lost!" Sholto's bright blue eyes flashed in anger. He shook his head in disagreement. "I'm the unlucky one, John… dishonored because I survived. Death brings honor—"

"—With respect, sir," John interrupted, "that's not exactly true. _Sacrifice_ brings honor. It's the life before death that earns one acclaim. And it's the ultimate sacrifice—not the death itself—that's revered."

"Self-sacrifice is an act of suicide, isn't it?"

John considered Sholto's question before answering. "Yes, but the motivation for this so-called 'suicide' is a noble one."

The murmur of the outside crowd intruded softly whenever they stopped speaking: _Murderer Major_ _Murderer Major Murderer Major._

"But taking one's own life," John continued, ignoring the cries of the disheartened, "is cowardly. It's the exact opposite of an honorable, noble sacrifice. That's my opinion." John paused. "Let me be clear. I'm not talking about those suffering from depression. Despondency, mental illness or acute anxiety are not rational states of mind…. No, I'm talking about the person who takes his own life when he knows, when he knew—" John's voice hitched. What Sherlock had done infuriated him. "When he _knew_ it was wrong! When he had all his faculties to resist the act and…and did it anyway."

Now that his walled-up emotions had been breached, John could no longer keep silent. "This kind of suicide…well, it's a contradiction of an honorable act. And that's what I don't get. Sh…my friend… was an honorable man. He was the farthest thing from a coward!" John stomped his foot at the futility, then balled his fist. "He was the very definition of rational and cold logic. That's why it makes no sense that he would've just given up, no sense at all. It goes everything he is… _was_."

"If that's true... about your friend," Sholto offered, "then he must've had a rational reason. Sometimes it's a snap judgement or a reflex with no time to explain. An honorable man makes the ultimate sacrifice when there's no other way to save others—"

"—But, but… _he_ was the one under attack! _He_ was the one who needed saving! That's where I failed him—" John thumped his chest angrily and dropped his gaze to the floor. He pulled a slow, deep breath through his nose to dampen his rage, then continued in a strained voice. "If you're right, then _who_ was he saving?" John exhaled an exasperated sigh, "Whatever the reasons, _Bloody Christ,_ I'll never know!"

They remained quiet for a long spell, listening to the outside voices until other sounds intruded and the chanting ceased. Whirling blue lights of official vehicles flashed intermittently through the hospital-room window. Security personnel emerged from their cars to address the crowd that had been disturbing the peace on public property. One by one, individuals left the group and strode away. Only a solitary young man refused to leave. The hospital guards let him be.

"How did you resist the…alternative, John?' Sholto's question drew John's attention from the window to his former commander. Sholto met the question in John's eyes and confessed, "You should know…I learnt about Colonel Carruthers—what he'd been doing…"

Lips pursed, John nodded twice in acknowledgement. "I was tempted… but I wasn't irrational. That's the difference. I didn't see my death accomplishing anything but fulfilling Carruthers' revenge. I owed him nothing. I certainly didn't owe him my life. But I do owe Mac and my friends a life worth living."

Sholto considered John's answer without comment. He slowly nodded, although it seemed from politeness, not because he had been by persuaded John's answer.

"It's what I believe." John insisted "It keeps me going, even now." He needed to ensure another honorable man— _this_ good friend—did not falter and succumb to despair. "Carruthers tried to force my hand, to do what his grief dictated was the 'honorable thing,' but I refused to dishonor those who died protecting our country's interests—and us—no matter how lost I had felt, no matter who told me my life was worthless. Suicide was … _is_ not the answer. It's a self-destructive act. And it's worst motivation stems from vanity and self-pride—"

"What about saving face?" The Major pushed. "There's honor in that, yes?"

"Not in my book." John shook his head vigorously. "It takes more courage to live. Anyway, saving face is not the same as saving others. Saving others is our duty as soldiers. It's also the reason I went into medicine, to have a hand in saving lives. Funny thing. Carruthers' harassment made me realize that saving lives meant saving my own from the most cowardly act of defeat."

"All _this_ wisdom, Watson." Sholto observed with quiet admiration. "Might be sessions with your trick cyclist are doing you _some_ good, but you've always been insightful. It's what I valued the most during our tour together."

John smiled at the man's compliment, embarrassed by the unexpected openness of their conversation, and grateful for a candor that felt cleansing. "You see, Jim, this…" He gestured between them with a back-and-forth motion of his hand. "... this _talk_ can be very helpful; that's what therapy—good therapy—offers."

"Humpf. Think so, do you?" Sholto closed his eyes, the right side of his face relaxed, his jaw slackened. His head rested against the chair back.

For a moment, John thought Sholto had fallen asleep, but the Major struggled to open his eyes. "Sorry, Capt'n. Can't always fight the fatigue...damn painkillers."

"Understood. Look… I'll ahh, I'll go. Besides, you need your rest. It'll help you heal faster. Remember, we're having a pint or two when you get out? Rest up. Will stop by again soon." John turned to go.

"Wait, Captain Watson!"

John obeyed the command, pivoted about face and stood at attention.

"A side benefit of...endless time...here... is thinking. So, before you go, I've got one bit of unsought-for advice for a loyal friend." The Major had regained his strong voice. He pinned John with his signature piercing stare as he made an effort to stand. "In light of all you've said, I think you deserve...this advice."

"Sir." John's curiosity was piqued by Sholto's unusual tone.

"I speak from experience. Sometimes we get lost in these … high principles of ours and forget we're human, as human and flawed as everyone else. On those rare occasions when we fail, we fall harder than others because we've let ourselves down. We're surprised by our shortcomings. Don't forget this. You've endured much and kept your ethics intact, Captain **.** However, if and when missteps happen—and they will—be as kind to yourself, as you've been to others. And most of all forgive yourself…" Sholto ended with a smile that managed to be kinder than twisted. He offered his good hand to shake John's. "That's all, soldier."

"Thank you, Major." John stepped back, saluted, spun on his heel and left, tucking his former commander's message away to ponder later. Painkillers often made people say strange things, although Sholto's advice sounded more like a warning.

John continued to visit his convalescing friend in the months that followed and Sholto never repeated his advice.

**88**88**

Eighteen difficult months after Sherlock's death, John Watson met Mary Morstan, the "best thing to happen" to him in a long while. The cocoon of numbness began to unravel as their relationship developed. During their first six months together, he began to feel capable of getting on with his life, when another miracle—his "not dead" friend—returned. With Mary's encouragement and with his friendship with Sherlock restored, John Watson took the moral high road James Sholto had most admired about him and forgave his flawed friend for the deception, never suspecting that other deceptions, including his own, lay ahead.

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**More to come...**


	9. Errors and Deceptions

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> **"Bad company ruins good morals."**

_1 Corinthians 15:33_

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Bliss buoyed John's normal tolerance for Sherlock's eccentricities, especially during the Watson's nuptials. Sitting beside his new bride on the wedding-party dais, John listened behind as straight a face as he could possibly manage to his Best Man's speech, suffering through Sherlock's awkwardness in front of "actual people actually listening." John sighed at his own foolishness for putting his best friend in the spotlight. Minutes into his opening statements, the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath had thoroughly insulted and horrified their guests.

"The point I'm trying to make…" Sherlock's tone suddenly shifted from piercing to personal. "…is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet…."

The silence among the shocked guests confirmed their unanimous agreement.

John had long-since conceded that he was powerless at softening Sherlock's blunt edges, but he had hoped when he had chosen him that Sherlock would have risen to the occasion—at least during the wedding reception. As Sherlock was his best friend, he deserved the place of honor, but as matters stood, Sherlock seemed incapable of conforming to the societal niceties; John would accept the blame. Except, an instant later, his best friend redeemed himself and John's faith in him.

"So if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man," Sherlock continued, "it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend….Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing."

Soft _awwws_ arose from the wedding guests. Mary beamed a smile at her new husband.

"John, I am a ridiculous man—,"

John concurred with a nod of his head.

"—redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But, as I'm apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion.

Just as the wedding guests registered the criticism, Sherlock turned it around, giving them all a rare glimpse of his human side. "Actually, now I can. Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss—so sorry again about that last one—" he interjected softly in a personal aside. "So know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved. In short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that."

Such heartwarming words were as startling as they were touching for everyone, but more importantly, they exonerated John's staunch belief in Sherlock Holmes. John rewarded Sherlock with an affectionate hug of approval whilst the assembly dabbed away sentimental tears and applauded. As he sat down beside Mary and listened to Sherlock's account of their ridiculous adventures, John was chuffed, smiling with gratitude at his wife and friend—the two people he not only "loved and cared about most in the world" but whom he could always trust.

**88**88**

His blissful trust, an illusion, proved short-lived.

John's choice of clever wife which, according to Sherlock, had been a step up from his best friend was, rather, a major misstep. Mary's deceit-by-omission about her past shook John to the core. The three had just returned to 221B to settle the Watson's domestic, and John, bewildered and enraged, had asked his lying wife. "Is everyone… I've ever met...a psychopath?"

"Yes." Sherlock, not Mary, had answered his question, proving his affirmative with data from John's past. "You were a doctor who went to war. You're a man who couldn't stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high…. Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel…. You are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people... so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you've fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?"

Stunned by having his life flayed open in so frank a fashion, John looked toward the friend he trusted and away from the wife who had betrayed his trust. "But she," he pointed to the stranger behind him, " _wasn't_ supposed to be like that..." Strangling emotions made his rebuttal sound lame to his ears. "Why is _she_ like that?" He had given them both his loyalty and his trust and had expected their best in return, so Sherlock's answer—"because you chose her"—had upset him further.

"Why is everything… _my fault!_ " he had erupted in anguished fury. It had been the second time in recent months that John had been faulted for having a normal reaction to duplicity. In the previous instance, he had objected to being kept in dark by Sherlock's faked death. _"Why am I the only one who thinks that this is wrong—the only one reacting like a human being?"_

**88**88**

After Mary's deceit, disillusionment set in. John let a furnished room in a shared four-bedroom flat to stay apart from Mary. Sometimes he overnighted in 221B. He needed time to forgive her treachery for shooting Sherlock and for deceiving him, if forgiveness were even possible. _Who is she? Who am I, really?_ John wondered in the silent isolation of his temporary living quarters. He felt unmoored, uncertain where he belonged, where home was for him. Not with Mary? Not in Baker Street? Yet he longed to return to normalcy. _What is normal, anyway? First Sherlock and Mary lie to protect me from the truth—like I'm too normal for them—then they accuse me of being attracted to abnormally dangerous situations? Which is it?_

_88**88_

"Major?" It was late evening several weeks after the awful revelation; John had been walking briskly to his lodgings when it popped into his head to ring Sholto. His former commander, having fully recovered from the attempt on his life at the Watson's wedding, had returned to his secluded home. Occasionally they rang each other, so the Major would not suspect anything amiss with the call. Perspective from someone who had known him during the height of his military career was what John sought.

"Captain!"

John could hear the smile in Sholto's voice. He smiled back. It was a reflex. Weighed down by his doubts, John hadn't been smiling the moment before.

"Mrs. Watson is fine, then?"

"Yeah. All good," John lied, pulling his collar up against the chilling fall breeze that kicked through his hair. "Baby is due in several months still. We're pumped, of course…"

"Quite. Hmmmmm." Sholto may have sensed the strained enthusiasm in John's voice. "Things okay, otherwise? Little news has reached here since the shooting. How's Holmes' recovery?"

"He's coming along. All his genius wits about him, thank God, but he's not entirely back on his feet. Overall, the prognosis is good. Things should be getting back to normal— _normal_ for Sherlock, if there's such a thing—soon enough," John lied again. Normal was an intangible and the truth was complicated.

"Haven't caught who shot him, then?"

John stopped dead in his tracks. Night buses rolled past, their interior lights illuminating the few passengers within as he stood paralyzed by Sholto's innocent question. Secrets gnawed at him. No one should know that his wife had been a trained assassin; that she had shot Sherlock to forestall her plan to take down her real target, the media magnate and blackmailer, Charles Augustus Magnussen. _"Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from CAM. Wish your family could have seen thi_ s."

"Everyone's in the dark…" John's stomach clutched with this third lie.

**"** I see. Quite disturbing, that. I guess you heard about Carruthers, then?" The Major interjected. "Saw the obit. Massive stroke, it seems."

"Yeah. Sad," John agreed as he resumed walking, glad their conversation, like his steps on the pavement, had rounded a corner. When John had begun his new life with Mary and the good life with Sherlock, he no longer suffered from the Colonel Carruthers' shaming tactics. That connection had finally dissolved. However now, John was dealing with shame in his choice of wife. "I was told he'd been prone to silent strokes for a while before the first big one. He'd had a few more strokes after that, too, before this last. Such bitterness…. a poor end for a once highly principled man."

"Highly principled? He'd lost the plot well before, especially by what he did to you, Watson. Highly principled?" Sholto snorted his objection. "Sorry. At his best he was extraordinary, but at his worst he was too rigid. Gave no allowance for human error. A man that brittle…that's why he broke…." He finished with slight contrition in his voice. "Not to speak ill of the dead. God knows, there will be worse things said about me."

"Of us all," John agreed solemnly, hit with envy by a passing couple, arm-in-arm, who giggled and whispered with affection, lost in their own world.

"You, Captain?" Sholto scoffed. "Except for Carruthers' outlandish accusations, never heard a complaint about you."

Feeling worse about his lies, John fumbled to reply, "I'm sure you just didn't get wind of them. No one's that perfect. Coincidentally, that's why I rang you. This might be…odd _… Sod it_ , it _is_ odd, but…Jim, how would you describe me… what I mean is… the Captain John Watson who'd been under your command?"

"Can't imagine what prompts you to ask. However, to know the answer, John, you need only to reference my reports on your outstanding service."

"Yes. Thank you, sir. I've always been humbled by your esteem."

"Certainly earned. What more do you need to know? Whilst your ethics, your integrity were of the highest standards, your compassion kept you nonjudgmental of others who failed to attain your levels… unlike Carruthers, I might add, who was inflexible. Let's see… you were a top-notch surgeon, loyal friend and a practical and level-headed soldier who knew the difference between courage and fearlessness. Your fidelity and obedience to duty were especially outstanding under fire…"

"Good to hear. Again, thank you, sir." John hesitated, aware that his next question was properly peculiar. "Would you say I was abnormally drawn to dangerous situations?"

"Abnormally? Strange question, John." Sholto chuckled softly. "What is normal during armed conflicts against an aggressive enemy, then? You were never reckless or foolhardy, still you had nerves of steel…I admit that cliché fits you. You took care to ensure those around you were safe and you did your utmost to rescue the wounded. If that's abnormal, I'd wish more of my men had acted that way."

Sholto paused, his curiosity obvious. "This should be a subject for your therapist. Still topping off with occasional visits, are you?"

"Not recently," John admitted. His illusion of contentment, when everything had really seemed fine, gave him cause to end his sessions with Ella Thompson.

"No one returns unscathed from war. You told me that yourself in so many words when you used to visit me in the VA hospital. PTSD aside—or PTSS, whatever they're calling it now—the long-term effects will make us notice personality changes, especially in civilian settings. We've _both_ been changed by this…this metamorphosis of war. It's the highly principled and self-disciplined man who keeps it under control. No one, in my estimation, has done it better than you, John."

The words had a familiar, therapy-session ring to them. John smiled. "You're seeing a trick cyclist, then?"

Sholto laughed. "How can you tell?"

"Oh, the science of deduction," John grinned. "It works every time! Well, not for me, but you know… it's the Sherlock-Holmes effect. Everybody _thinks_ they can do it. Most everybody is _bloody_ awful at it, including me."

When John rang off and entered his dark room, he considered the possibility that what Sherlock believed about him was true. He flipped on the lights and stared at the stark single bed he had tidily made up that morning. In the shared, tiny kitchen, empty of other residents as it was past dinnertime, he prepared his meal. Putting leftover soup in the microwave, he gathered ingredients for a quick chicken dish in the skillet. Whilst chopping kale and baby bok choy on a bistro table that did double duty as a worktop, he sipped his soup to take the edge off his appetite. As he worked, John could not keep the lingering heartache about Mary at bay. He missed her. Would a good and decent man feel this way? Was it a sign of his abnormality—his desire for dangerous situations—to choose to keep the people in his life who hid behind their disguises? Was it wrong of him to turn a blind eye to the dangers inherent in Sherlock's eccentricities and Mary's past deceptions or both their amoral views of justice?

John was no paragon of virtues, although he believed himself to be a good man who sought to do the ethical thing, but the saying, "show me your friends and I'll tell you who you are," kept repeating in the back of his mind. Did that mean that by willingly associating with Mary and Sherlock, he, too, was capable of deception and amoral perspectives? By accepting them as they were, had he become like them or had he always been like this?

In reviewing his past, John concluded that there _was_ a difference—Sholto called it the metamorphosis of war—in how he reacted to situations since leaving the army. His strong moral principles had kept him from shooting Jeff Hope, the serial-suicide murderer, until Sherlock seemed in immediate danger. Would he have fired at all to protect a man he barely knew were he not army trained? Working with Sherlock, seeing the world through the eyes of such astonishing and clear-sighted genius, hadn't he aided and abetted in many nebulously irregular if not unlawful break-ins? Skirting the law was easy, even justified, on an investigation with Sherlock. Was this what Sherlock had meant about an affinity to dangerous situations? Were these the acts of an upstanding and decent man or the actions of a person changed by PTSD?

_88**88_

Variations of these questions dogged him during the months leading to Christmas. _"After all, it's the season of kindness and charitable gestures, a time of forgiveness for all our missteps in life."_ Sherlock had said that to him once many New Year's Eves ago. The words reminded John that he had not lost his compassion and empathy for others. He still knew the value of kindness. He also believed in forgiveness. He had already forgiven his friend for pretending to be dead. Did Mary merit forgiveness, as well?

Resignation replaced John's self-doubts and compassion was the constant that propelled him forward. On Christmas Day, he deferred his judgement about his wife's dubious morals by choosing to remain ignorant. He let go of his lingering qualms with Mary's deception—especially because their baby was on the way. He was being a generous and loving husband when he redeemed her—and himself—with the simple, "The problems of your past are your business; the problems of your future are my privilege." That hard-won reconciliation brought John the first peace he had known in months.

In a matter of hours, however, John's peace-filled prospects dropped from blissful ignorance to abysmal truth. Sherlock had willfully committed cold-blooded murder to save John and Mary from Magnussen's blackmail. His noble and terrible sacrifice had crossed the line in the eyes of the law; the consequence for murder—despite Sherlock's good intentions—was long-term incarceration. In the end, Mycroft's intervention had negotiated Sherlock's exile.

John could not reconcile why Sherlock would forfeit himself in such a reckless way. Forgiveness and dread filled his heart. He was about to lose his friend yet again when a twist of fate dealt a surprising hand. Faced with new threats from Moriarty, the British Government bent Justice's will and cleared Sherlock Holmes—"the blunt instrument, the sharp dagger, the scalpel wielded with precision and without remorse." Sherlock's service being deemed important for the defense of the land meant that Sherlock himself was more important than the law of the land.

At one time, the idealistic John Watson would have found this disturbing—these machinations of the seamy world of subterfuge and secret negotiations and compromises—the world of shadows that Mycroft Holmes, the most powerful man in the country, moved in. It was the same clandestine realm in which the black ops agent, code named A.G.R.A., had worked before becoming "Mary Morstan Watson." It was precisely the world in which the criminal element that Sherlock pursued thrived.

For the metamorphosed John Watson, however, seeing how this world worked for those privileged to live outside the moral order confirmed what he had reluctantly come to understand. Maintaining high standards in such a world was ludicrous, futile. Morality was actually not black and white, but as grey as the densest fog swallowing up the clear path forward.

In his relief for Sherlock, John welcomed the fog. For the love of his wife and their newborn daughter, he strayed from the moral high road. He relaxed his idealized standards and acquiesced in the duplicity of the real world.

After that, minute fissures cracked the veneer of John's "good" life. The like-mindedness that Mary and Sherlock shared began to needle him, make him feel unneeded. If being best friends with an "unsavory companion of dubious morals" as Sherlock once referred to himself was John's first misstep off the ethical road, then discovering Mary's deception _—"that wife! John Watson's in trouble"—_ and choosing to forget it, was his second. His third misstep—the one that caused him to stray the farthest—was the undercutting, morale-sapping mockery of his ingenious best friend and his brilliant loving wife _—"in short, the two people who love you most in all this world."_ Those two extraordinary people had peculiar ways of demonstrating their undying love, tongue in cheek or not, by suggesting he was unnecessary or worse, not up to _their_ standards.

_"She's better at this than you."_

_"Better?"_

_"So I texted her."_

_"Hang on. Mary's better than me?"_

_"Well, she is a retired super-agent with a terrifying skill set. Of course she's better."_

_"Yeah, okay….What, so I'm supposed to just go home now, am I?"_

_"Oh, what do you think, Sherlock? Shall we take him with us?"_

_"John or the dog?"_

_"Ha-ha, that's funny."_

_"John."_

_"Well ..."_

_"He's handy and loyal."_

_"That's hilarious."_

_"Mm."_

_"Is it too early for a divorce?"_

Their jesting contained a kernel of truth—that John was superfluous. He had felt it, long before he could have articulated it to himself. John did not want to be as useful as a balloon on a string, a smiling face floating above his armchair, he wanted more. So when a tempting smile from a strange woman on the bus caught John's eye, his fidelity to his wife slipped—truly a _dangerous_ situation if one's wife _"is a retired super-agent with a terrifying skill set."_

The flirtation between John and the woman on the bus went no farther than texting—which John, putting reason before flattery and abiding by his marital vow, ended soon enough.

Unsettled by the ease of this temptation, John took stock of himself. He had been living lie after lie after lie. He was not the man Mary had believed him to be; _"All the time. You're always a good man, John. I've never doubted that. You never judge; you never complain. I don't deserve you... You don't make it easy, do you?...being so perfect."_ He was neither good nor perfect and, eroded by self-doubts, had devolved to being judgmental.

"Mary,... I-I need to tell you...," but he had been interrupted before he could clear his conscience. John's time with Mary ran out. The problems of her past could not be averted, even though Sherlock had vowed to protect them. The best of times had become the worst of times.

Mary caught a bullet meant for Sherlock. She died in John's arms, and John again lost his way, this time in all-consuming grief, regret, and self-loathing. Blame was everywhere and forgiveness was out of reach. Irrational and distraught, he drank to banish his feelings whilst banishing the vow-breaking Sherlock from his life. He berated himself with greater cruelty than Colonel Carruthers had ever done. His guilt in both failing to keep Mary safe and deceiving her with his inappropriate intentions ate at him.

For Rosie's sake, John pulled himself up by the bootstraps, barely breaking the hold of his regrets that kept pulling him back into the abyss.

_"I'm at the bottom of a pit and I'm still falling and I'm never climbing out. I'm a mess; I'm in hell…Look at me. Can't do it, not now. Not alone."_ Sherlock had said, off his nut on drugs, after appearing in the office of John's new therapist to ask for John's help to stop the villainous Culverton Smith. It was as if Sherlock was describing John's state of mind.

Where John was falling into a private hell of self-blame and Sherlock was diving headlong into a hellish drugged state, the tensile strength of their extraordinary connection was suffering the greatest test. Like the old Zen parable of the Long Chopsticks at the Banquet Tables in Hell and Heaven demonstrated, however, those who served each other, saved each other. John by saving Sherlock's life and Sherlock by needing to be saved by John, each received the hand-up they both needed to escape hell.*

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_**EPILOGUE TO FOLLOW** _

* * *

_*The Lying Detective_ and see also the fanfiction by Wynsom _: BBC Sherlock One Shot To Hell and Back_

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	10. Epilogue

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**一念天堂，一念地獄**

**("A turn in mind is all the difference between Heaven and Hell)**

**88**88**

Sherlock's eye was still bloodied and his face bore the bruises from John's fists. All that had transpired—the terrifying moments when Sherlock had pulled a scalpel on Calverton Smith in Saint Caedwalla's Hospital Morgue which unleashed John's vicious rage to disarm him—was now days behind them. They feigned a casual calm—typical British restraint—sitting opposite each other in their respective sitting-room chairs, sharing mugs of tea and talking "shop" about aspects of the case. At last excusing himself from "just hanging out," John slid forward in his chair. "Uh, sorry, it's just, um, you know, Rosie?"

"Yes, of course, Rosie…" Sherlock apologized, "Yes. Yes! Sorry, I…I wasn't thinking of Rosie."

"No problem," John said as he rose to go.

"I should, uh, come and see her soon," Sherlock suggested, looking up with optimism at John.

John considered it for a beat. The hope in Sherlock's face made his throat tightened. "Yes," he said simply and crossed toward the landing.

Sherlock patted his tea mug with a nervous energy, fishing for more things to say. He cast several leading comments about the Smith Case but couldn't hook John with the stale topic. John almost got away, except Sherlock made one extraordinary effort. "Are you okay?" he asked, daring to confront their mutual confusion and the unspoken sentiments that shimmered beneath the surface.

John was instantly reeled back into the sitting room on a wave of sarcasm. "What, what, am I...? No, no, I'm not okay. I'm never gonna be okay." He laughed harshly.

A flush of irritation rose to John's cheeks. The usual pity of well-meaning acquaintances asking him that question riled him. Immediately he swallowed his annoyance, recognizing remorse, not pity, in Sherlock's uplifted gaze. Sherlock was no _mere_ acquaintance. He had cared deeply about Mary, too. They had both lost so much. John calmed himself and resumed, "... but we'll just have to accept that. It is what it is; and what it is is... _shit_."

Sherlock nodded, accepting John's assessment and sadly lowered his eyes.

John also dropped his gaze, realizing his terse answer would not have satisfied Mary. Throughout his entire visit with Sherlock, he had been distracted by memories, projections of Mary listening or making quips and asides in her perky fashion. She was always in his head. He was seeing and hearing her everywhere and yearned for her actual presence. Even the crackling fire in the sitting-room fireplace had become her whispering voice. _"John, do better,"_ urged the leaping flames.

Doing better, John fought the impulse to leave painful things unsaid. He noted the quiet grieving in Sherlock's drawn mouth and pushed through the darkest secret of his despair.

"Um..." he inhaled slowly, aware he owed his friend and himself the truth. "You didn't kill Mary."

Whilst his eyes remained riveted on John's face, the subtlest parting of Sherlock's lips conveyed his surprise and hope that his ears were not deceiving him.

"Mary died saving your life," John continued. "It was her choice. No one made her do it. No one could ever make her _do_ anything..." John imagined her approving smile as he lifted the burden off Sherlock, a burden his friend had not deserved to bear. "… but the point is: you did not kill her."

"In saving my life, she conferred a value on it," the humbled genius admitted. "It is a currency I do not know how to spend."

Sherlock's heartfelt reply would have immensely pleased Mary. John gave his head a slight shake and managed a restrained smile. "It is what it is," and quickly switched the topic to confirm his next visit, then turned to go. This time, not Sherlock, but an all-too-familiar text-alert that chimed on Sherlock's mobile detained him. Curious, intrigued, John recognized The Woman's signature orgasmic sigh and strode back into the sitting room determined to uncover what appeared to be another long-concealed truth—the lie that Irene Adler had died.

The two friends talked, debated, argued, heatedly at times, about meaningful connections and romantic entanglements, until John strong-armed the discussion with his most impassioned demands.

"Just text her. Phone her. Do something while there's still a chance, because that chance doesn't last forever. Trust me, Sherlock: it's gone before you know it." The truth of loss empowered his voice as John repeated the last four words, "BEFORE YOU KNOW IT!"

Sherlock was silenced by John's raw pain.

And in that pause, the floodgates of John's dammed-up deceits opened; honesty flowed freely, "She was wrong about me."

"Mary?" Sherlock was taken by surprise. "How so?"

John's glances oscillated between Sherlock and the fireplace. He sidled like a boxer defending himself in the ring. "She thought that if you put yourself in harm's way I'd...I'd rescue you or something. But I didn't—not 'til she told me to. And that's how this works. That's what you're missing." John raised his hand and pointed in midair as if someone were there. " _She_ taught me to be the man she already thought I was. Get yourself a piece of that."

Indignant on John's behalf, Sherlock protested, "Forgive me, but you are doing yourself a disservice. I have known many people in this world but made few friends and I can safely say—"

"—I cheated on her." John blurted a truth that completely shut down Sherlock's argument. "No clever comeback?" His quick, hand gesture invited Sherlock's rebuke, but John didn't wait for one. Instead, he turned to face the other presence in the room.

All evening John had been envisioning Mary's amused eyes, her lovely mouth, her disarming smile, her giggles and wisecracks, but now confessing at last, John imagined Mary serious and listening. "I cheated on you, Mary."

Sherlock watched in wonder, gripped by the one-sided interplay of grief and loss in John's quest for forgiveness.

"There was a woman on the bus, and I had a plastic daisy in my hair. I'd been playing with Rosie….And this girl just smiled at me." Lost, needing to be found, John continued confessing to the Mary in his mind. "That's all it was. It was a smile...We texted constantly. You wanna know when? Every time you left the room, that's when. When you were feeding our daughter; when you were stopping her from crying—that's when." His eyes welled with tears. Swallowing hard, he pushed on. "That's all it was, just texting. But I wanted more."

Sherlock listened hard, hearing urgency in John's unfulfilled needs.

"And d'you know something? I still do. I'm not the man you thought I was; I'm not that guy. I never could be. But that's the point." He bit his quivering lower lip to contain his bared emotions. Not succeeding, he sniffed through his tears, "That's the whole point."

John, focused elsewhere, had forgotten Sherlock's presence. "Who you thought I was..." John imagined Mary's encouraging nod. "... is the man who I want to be."

Still as stone John stood, listening for his dead wife's absolution.

_88**88_

Watching John speak to the ghost of Mary, Sherlock pondered whether John would find the peaceful resolution from the blame that haunted him.

He had been scrutinizing every grimace, every wince in John's face, seeing the evolution of sorrow in the sway of his body, the tilt of his head, his hand gestures. Never before had Sherlock _understood_ as profoundly another's grief, except this was John Watson, the man who had shown him the power of "caring." Since her death, Sherlock had been quietly enduring his own sense of loss for _his_ friend Mary, keenly aware he could never fully experience a husband's sorrow at losing his wife. How much worse it has been for John.

_"Don't get involved, Sherlock,"_ Mycroft had once warned.

How far he had come. Back when John Watson had agreed to share the flat, Sherlock had no expectations of getting involved. That the invalided soldier had disturbing PTSD nightmares—guilt-driven and exacerbated by the Carruthers connection—intrigued him, but he had kept aloof from his flat-mate's pain. Getting involved came gradually as John Watson evolved from being Sherlock's flat-mate, to "little helpmate," to crime-solving partner, to friend. Mutual acceptance formed strong ties between them, understanding pulled them closer, and each adversity strengthened their relationship. If the recent heartbreaking tragedy could not break this connection, then nothing ever would.

_"Don't get involved, Sherlock…"_

Yet, because he had _got_ involved, Sherlock had learnt from John Watson about the nobleness of spirit, an intangible no science could measure, and the value of human connections that he had eschewed for most of his life. But the greatest gift John had given him was compassion. It was this gift of compassion that enabled him to reciprocate _with_ compassion now, when it was needed most...all _because_ he got involved…

John had bowed his head, veiled his eyes with his left hand and sobbed.

With deliberate care, Sherlock laid his mug on the side table and rose from his chair. No longer preferring detachment—unlike years ago in the cemetery watching his friend's grief from afar, the grief he caused—Sherlock slowly approached, feeling _able_ to offer John comfort. "It's okay," he soothed gently, placing one tentative but tender hand on John's arm. When John did not shrug off that initial touch, Sherlock placed his other hand with more certainty on his friend's back, sliding it up to cradle John's neck, letting John's bowed head rest against his chest. The contact was as natural as it was instinctive in giving solace, but for a man who had intellectualized sentiment as weakness, extending genuine kindness in this manner was unparalleled.

"It's _not_ okay," John whimpered through his tears.

Sherlock stepped closer and slid his hand from John's arm to his shoulder, enveloping his grieving friend. "No," he agreed, resting his cheek atop John's head, "but it is what it is," he whispered, blinking away commiserating tears. Moved beyond measure, he closed his eyes.

Before this, they had stood together through thick and through thin against many adversaries, but now they stood together against such powerful sorrow. Grieving together brought them together and strengthened their extraordinary ties with warmth and affection.

Sherlock grasped that this moment was neither abhorrent nor awkward, just heartening; John made no attempt to move apart as if he felt the same.

However long it took, eventually Sherlock felt peace settle over John. The tightness in his neck and shoulders relaxed. His sobs had ebbed, becoming sniffs, and then grunts. One of John's hands moved to swipe down his face; the other fumbled to find a handkerchief in his jacket pocket. Then gently he pushed free of Sherlock's hold, his eyes downcast.

Sherlock stepped back silently, his glance also dropping away, uncertain what to do next. Curious and hopeful, Sherlock studied his friend for answers. No one had ever sought him for sympathy or consolation. Had he served John well? What was even more revelatory was that in giving succor, he had received it, too. Did John _feel_ as consoled as he?

_88**88_

John turned away, dabbed his eyes, and blew his nose. He felt lightheaded and light hearted. Having imagined Mary's ghostly forgiveness helped him deal with his guilt, but here in the _real_ world Sherlock's solicitude touched him. That Sherlock was reciprocating the compassion and kindness John had shown him, shown Mary despite her mistakes, even shown the forbidding Colonel Carruthers who died a miserable man was validating. John heaved a deep, grateful breath and, despite how cathartic he felt from experiencing firsthand Sherlock's emotional growth, offered Sherlock an apology. "Umm. Sorry. Sorry about that…," he cleared his throat. "Didn't mean to….never meant to lose control like that …"

Sherlock attempted nonchalance by shoving his hands in his dressing-gown pockets and shrugging his shoulders. His smile seemed perfectly neutral. "Trust me. No apologies necessary."

"Trust you…," John gave a short, half-suppressed laugh. He straightened his shoulders and sniffed deeply before nodding. "'Trust takes years to build, seconds to break, and forever to repair.'"

Sherlock grunted, familiar with the quote, and flashed a quirky smile. "Then forever it is, John, if that's what it'll take. After all, we have time... "

"Uh huh, yeah, time…" John drew in another deep breath and looked at Sherlock for a few seconds longer. He now knew what he had known deep down all along—he could _always_ trust Sherlock to have his back. "—Okay, so, umm— hold on." He whipped out his mobile and hit autodial.

"John? What are you doing?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Don't worry. Got this!" John half grinned. "Ringing Molly," he explained, acknowledging Sherlock's puzzled reaction. "Hey, Molly? How's Rosie?" John listened briefly and nodded, a warm smile—a rare sight—softened his face. "Good. Then, Listen….bundle her up. We're going out for cake. It's Sherlock's birthday."

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes, but John ignored his objection.

"There's a café on the corner of…." John continued speaking into his mobile, scratching his forehead in thought. "Huh…Oh! Yeah? I know _that_ place. Even better. Meet you there…say in twenty? Going to collect Mrs. Hudson, too. Later then."

Sherlock was not fooled by John's swift transition to chipper façade. Sadness still lingered in his eyes. "John," Sherlock protested, certain there were still unresolved issues they had not addressed, but as reluctant as John to push the envelope, "Going out?…This is rash, no? Given the preponderance of the well-meaning advice from you and the doctors, I'm supposed to be taking it easy…"

"Easy doesn't mean moping all day or getting bored. Anyway, this _is_ easy. Simple in fact. We meet at the café. We order you some cake. We light some candles. We sing—"

"— _No_ candles. Absolutely _no_ singing!"

"—We _don't_ sing. No candles…you're sure, not even for Rosie? Okay, Okay," John agreed off Sherlock's frown. "We eat the cake. See, easy peasy."

"I'm in my dressing gown." Sherlock whinged.

"Change!" John ordered.

Sherlock glared at John and slipped his blue dressing off with extra care. The aches from his bruised ribs and abdomen were sharp reminders if he made a wrong move.

"Jacket?" John asked, looking around.

Sherlock pointed toward his bedroom.

When John returned with the jacket, he helped Sherlock pull it on, mindful of the patient's condition.

"So Molly's going to meet us at this _cake place_." Sherlock exhaled, straightening his jacket.

"Well, it's your birthday. Cake is obligatory." John held Sherlock's coat in an offer to assist him.

Sherlock shook his head and took the greatcoat from him. Determination kept him from wincing with pain as he put on his coat. "Oh, well. Suppose a sugar high's some sort of substitute." He waited for John in the doorway .

"Behave," John said as he joined Sherlock at the landing.

"Right then. You know...," Sherlock stalled, gaining John's full attention. "... it's not my place to say but...it was just texting."

Blind-sided, John sighed and averted his eyes, not sure if he wanted to hear what more Sherlock had to say.

"People text." Sherlock persisted, gauging John's discomfort by the depth of his second sigh. "Even I text. Her, I mean. Woman. Bad idea. Try not to, but, you know, sometimes…" Sherlock drew in a breath. He was also uncomfortable with the subject, but intent on making his point, At least, John held his gaze the entire time. "It's not a pleasant thought, John, but I have this terrible feeling, from time to time, that we might all just be human."

"Even you?" John said with a smug smile.

"No," Sherlock stated in complete seriousness.

John blinked, suddenly aware that the tables were turning on him.

"Even you." Sherlock assured his very human friend.

Their eyes held. What passed between them was a mutual understanding—neither had to be perfect to be other's friend. John felt self-blame lift away with Sherlock's friendship and abiding faith in him. Sherlock accepted him, unconditionally—had _always_ accepted him. There might be times when each might fall short of the other's expectations, but getting up, dusting oneself off and striving to go forward as a better person was what living was all about. How far they both had already come was remarkable, but how far they could go, not alone, but as a team were stories still to be written!

Gratified, John swiveled toward the door. "Cake?"

"Cake," Sherlock agreed, but before John could proceed past the doorway, Sherlock halted and interjected, "Oh, um..." He limped back into the sitting room toward the cabinet beside the table, intent on something inside it.

"What? What is it?" John asked unable to see past Sherlock's great coat, although he could hear Sherlock sorting through the drawer. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock straightened up and turned toward John; he had pulled on his deerstalker hat.

"Seriously?" John exclaimed with a short laugh. Mary had often urged Sherlock to wear the signature hat both during her life, and after, in John's vivid mental conversations with her. It seemed oddly coincidental that Sherlock despite disliking it would don it now.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. I wear the _damn_ hat!" Sherlock declared, swiftly shutting the drawer with a backwards kick and striding with purpose past John. "Isn't that right, Mary?"

John shot an astonished look back into the sitting room. Could Sherlock's uncanny ability to read John's mind have included "eavesdropping" on his imagined conversations with Mary? John scanned for Mary's presence, realizing that she had vanished after "hearing" her say, _"Well, John Watson, Get the hell on with it."_ Expecting to see once more her approving smiles or hear her delighted laugh that Sherlock was wearing the hat, he saw and heard nothing, just the crackling fire in the fireplace slowly dying.

John Watson blinked away his tears. He would never get over Mary. He loved her despite all the anguish they had caused each other. She was human, too, a product of her own backstory—manipulated by political agencies with great power—but she atoned for her missteps by giving her life to save Sherlock. She had made the ultimate sacrifice. Missing her as he turned to leave the flat, John felt redeemed by his turn in mind and a change in heart. He followed Sherlock down the stairs, ready to get on with his life.

**88**88**

**88**88**

**The End...or more likely, a new beginning.**


End file.
